


Daylight/Moonlight

by HiMiTSu



Series: Home of Shadows [7]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dancing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mob AU, Mob Boss Percival Graves, Murder, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiMiTSu/pseuds/HiMiTSu
Summary: Graves and Credence attend a party. It goes just as well as one would expect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so we are going into a new territory here. This story will be 4-5 chapters long, and most characters will be taken from canon. It will be a strange mix and I hope you will like it! There is some intrigue and drama ahead!
> 
> Most of my knowledge of US government system and police structure comes from movies and TV shows so I hope you will forgive the inaccurances. 
> 
> More characters will be added to the tag with new chapters.

The room was full of light and music. People milled about in perfectly pressed tuxes and shining floor length gowns. The lights were blinding, reflected from jewels and refracted through champagne flutes. Percival pressed his palm to the low of Credence’s back, a reassuring touch to lead him further in, guiding them away from the open floor to the room where music would be less loud. Credence was looking around, eyes wide as he took in the couples on the dance floor. They gilded past in a swirl of fabrics and soft mutter of conversations, and Percival drew Credence closer to avoid colliding into anyone.

“Alright?” He asked quietly, leaning his head to whisper in Credence’s ear. Muscles of Credence’s back were coiled tight, spine held ramrod straight – he wouldn’t move more than absolutely necessary, cautious to jerk another guest or to break a precious vase. “We can leave if you want.”

“No,” Credence shot out quickly. His head whipped around so he could look Percival in the eye. His cheeks were flushed with nerves and eyes shone brightly. “I would like to stay.” He dropped his gaze as he replied and Percival gave in to the temptation to press a little kiss to his warm cheek.

“Alright then.”

Through the grand doors they went, into a smaller room with round tables scattered about and a long wooden bar in the middle. Soft melody from the dance floor still reached here but it was muted and served merely as a background noise for private conversations. The atmosphere was more intimate here; light overhead soft and heavy velvet curtains blocking the windows. They cast a rich crimson tint onto the room, turning every movement of each patron, every whisper, into something more meaningful, more private.

Credence relaxed fractionally under his touch and, prompted by gentle pressure to his lower back, slid up to the bar. They eyed the crowd while waiting for drinks, exchanging quick comments. A of couple passers-by tried to strike up a conversation. Percival replied politely but coldly, discouraging any more questions. He could easily be charming and outgoing, gentle persuasion was still one of the tools of his trade after all, but that crowd was such a crazy mix of sinners and saints, law-abiding citizens and the worst criminals of New York city, he wasn’t always sure who he was talking to. Not to mention, since if a talk dragged on for too long, questions about his date would be inevitable and he would prefer Credence to stay out of any conversations.

Not many people at this party actually knew who he was. The guest list was the entire New York elite, true, starting from clean cut politicians and ending with gangsters. Percival had dealings with Shaw Sr. in the past but that man ran a paper as well as an incredibly popular news website, and the son wasn’t of much use yet. He might, however, prove to have some worth in the future.

“Isn’t Senator Shaw handsome?” Some elder woman sighed as she leaned on the bar at Percival’s elbow. Her eyes glinted drunkily as she hailed the bartender.

“Surely a necessary quality in a politician,” Percival retorted with humor.

The woman giggled girlishly and batted her eyelashes at the two of them. “You both are quite handsome as well.”

It was only proper to thank her, however Percival subtly turned so that he could be completely hide Credence behind his back. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but no one knew what a drunk socialite was capable of. However she only winked at him and disappeared back into the crowd after grabbing her drink. Percival took his own bourbon and handed Credence a tall glass of red wine. Though,, while Percival took a slow sip of his drink before leading them away to one of the small tables, Credence merely held his own, glass stem clasped delicately in his fingers. He wasn’t going to drink it. Maybe lift the glass politely to his mouth, let it wet his lips, but mostly he would twirl the delicate stem and shuffle the glass along the polished tabletop. Credence wasn’t interested in alcohol, but he was strangely fascinated with the aesthetics of it. Percival thought he looked aristocratic even without it.

His gaze swept adoringly over Credence’s figure. The suit was tailored perfectly to fit his trim frame, silky fabric hugging his limbs lovingly and painting accents in all the right places. Long legs in pants that were just shy from being too tight to be decent, compact waist brought to attention but the slim fit and a single button of the jacket, thin tie a stark contrast against the white shirt. The suit was dove gray with subtle metal sheen, while the tie was a dark burgundy – a splash of muted color in all the while neutral background. It hinted at hidden depth and dark secrets. Percival loved it.

The glass glid over the surface with a muted scrape. Percival tore his eyes from pale smoothness of his lover’s neck to meet his dark eyes.

“What next?” Credence asked. Percival searched for traces of worry in his expression but found none so far.

“We spend some time here.” He indicated at the room. “I assume the Senator would approach me at some point. Until then…”

Credence’s gaze turned to the room. Some people were glancing their way, but otherwise they weren’t getting much attention. It suited them just fine.

Percival felt a need to add, “However, if the Senator won’t come by soon, we can leave.”

Credence nodded – a little jerk that sent his hair in disarray – and dropped his gaze. Sometimes Percival wondered how the young man was always in-between two extremes. Either his every move was quick, a scared animal making a break for it until it gets caught, or he moved languorously slow, a purpose behind every gesture. Either he was comfortable to let himself relax or he was nervous and thus acted impulsively.

There was a tense set to his shoulders as they lingered on the edge of the party but his voice was strong when he reassured Percival that he didn’t want to leave yet.

They spent most of the time observing the crowd, Percival making small comments here and there, explanations who each person was and what they did. Quite a lot of Percival’s ‘colleagues’ were in attendance but they just passed by with slight nods of acknowledgement. It would be rude to ignore each other completely but no one wanted to show off their relations in front of the society. That was one reason Percival already was weary of the new Senator. A person who thought it wise to put his underground contacts in the same room as the members of his party must be either stupid or too confident. Percival had met too many men who were full of pride and in the end begged like the lowest scum. And they always begged, for mercy, for forgiveness. It was very rare for them to get it. Percival Graves was not a merciful man.

Credence’s touch to his elbow chased away the dark thought and he graced his lover with a small smile. “Is something wrong?” He felt like a broken record, repeating the question again and again, even though he knew Credence was stronger than he looked. It was quite possible he was tougher than Graves himself. And yet, every time the question sprung to Percival’s lips, prompted by his desire to protect.

“Not at all.” Credence’s replying smile was gentle. A light blush painted his cheeks but he continued bravely. “I thought…Maybe you’d like to dance with me?”

Surprise must have shown on his face because Credence ducked his head, embarrassed; Percival gently nudged his chin back up with his fingers, planted a chaste kiss to his lips, muttered a reply sweetly, “I’d love to.”

With that he led Credence away, leaving their unfinished drinks behind. In the doorway a leader of the Brooklyn gang rushed past them, apparently agitated so he didn’t even notice Graves. It bore a beginning of a worrying thought in Percival’s mind but he forgot about it quickly as Credence took his hand and dragged him to the dance floor. He froze uncertainly once there, glancing about at the couples twirling around them. Each one was a picture of elegance, a pretty gown trailing behind, a glint of diamonds in their wake. They were beautiful like that, just dressed up people, just dancing. It didn’t matter that some of them were dirty politicians, some were murderous even thought they had not touched a weapon in their lives. Percival despised such hypocrisy. Pretending to be an upstanding citizen in a room full of men you knew exactly what you were. Shady dealings in the background while upfront – a perfect law-abiding life. That wasn’t his style. He hid just enough not to let the police catch a whiff of his dealings but didn’t try to project an image of a law abiding citizen. He had more dignity than that.

He voiced none of those thoughts, let his mind drift above all the irritation, and simply enjoyed the music and the atmosphere. He put his hands around Credence, sliding a palm to hug his waist and gently cradling his hand in the other. A beat as they locked gazes; bright light of a huge chandelier reflected in the dark depths, and Percival took a first step, leading Credence into the dance. They swayed to the soft melody, gliding between other couples, blending in. Credence stumbled slightly at first but then they fell into a pattern and he relaxed as he got used to the repetitive motions, more sure of his steps. His hand settled more comfortably on Percival’s shoulder, no longer gripping for dear life.

He was beauty and elegance, and light and darkness all thrown together to create this wonderful person. He was everything Percival could ever wanted; more than that - he turned out to be everything Percival needed. Passionate and responsive lover, considerate and loyal partner, supportive, tough as rock, but also so trustful and dependent on Percival to help him. Changeable like a water spring. And lethal, like fire.

So many sides of him, each fascinating in its own way. Combines they showed this tame sweet young man, but out of balance they could crash anything in their way. Percival loved and cherished his every incarnation.

Uncaring of the crowds he pressed Credence closer and kissed him slowly. 

Credence breathed out against his mouth, as if he was finally letting go of all the worry that piled up inside of him. He hummed happily when Percival bit lightly on his lip and let go.

“Not such a bad evening, is it?” Percival chuckled at Credence’s petulant expression.

“I suppose not.”

They danced and danced; one melody forged into another, but still alike, soft and slow. Couples around them changed, but they still swayed in the middle of the dance floor, not needing anyone but each other. Percival lost track of time and was only reminded about the outer world when a man stepped up to them, halting their movements, and apologetically informed Percival that Senator was hoping to speak with him.

“Mr. Shaw is waiting in the office upstairs, Mr. Graves.”

Percival glanced at Credence pointedly and the man rushed to add, “Your date can wait in the adjoining room.”

The idea of leaving Credence alone didn’t sit well with him but it was only polite to have the introductions with the new Senator one on one. The man was not well-versed in the etiquette of the shadow circles yet.

Credence promised he would not get too bored waiting, the undertone suggesting that he wasn’t scared of any kind of attack. He had the gun hidden under his jacket – Percival made sure about that means of defense. He wasn’t making any risks. Not after many kidnapping attempts they had to fend off.

Credence’s brief touch to his hand lingered as Percival stepped into Shaw Jr.’s office. Their eyes met briefly and then Percival was turning away and steeling himself for business.

The place was what you’d expect from a politician’s workplace – large room with walls painted in light pastel colors, huge windows with light curtains to let the sun in during the day. At night they were dark, a garden behind the wide windows indiscernible in the darkness. A large desk of pale wood dominated the room. Its top was empty of any clatter.

Senator Shaw was waiting for him by the small bar mounted into the wall. He smiled cordially – a politician’s smile – and gestured at the assortment of drinks. “In celebration?” He offered good-naturedly.

He was certainly handsome, young and lively, perfect features arranging themselves in friendly expressions, blond hair swept away from his high forehead. A charming young man on his path to fight for good. He definitely looked good on the campaign posters his father printed.

Percival accepted a glass but didn’t drink. The Senator made a face – a playful grimace at the mistrust shown – and walked around Percival to a set of chairs on the other side of the room. He was purposefully not using the desk, showing they were equals and he had no antagonistic intentions. Percival wasn’t appreciative of such games.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Graves.” Shaw Jr. announced cordially. He took a healthy swig of his scotch and leaned back in his chair. In counterpoint, Percival put his own glass on the coffee table and leaned both hands on his knees, observing the other man intensely.

“I’ve wondered about that…” He admitted.

Senator’s mouth turned up into a smirk. “I believe there is no use for games, Mr. Graves.”

Percival bit down on his irritation and nodded for the other man to continue.

“I know who you are.” Shaw Jr. declared. His tone was less polished now that he got to actual business but the traces of friendliness still lingered. “I know my father has dealing with you.”

“And you would like to as well?”

Shaw Jr. hesitated, “Not exactly.”

Abruptly, he rose to his feet. Dawned the rest of his drink and stepped to the bar to pour another. His hands were steady but he poured more than appropriate amount, betraying his nerves anyway. He took a deep breath before facing Percival.

“You see, Mr. Graves.” His eyes were calculating as he spoke. No more cordiality either. “Soon I will rule this city.”

Percival chuckled darkly at the audacity of such statement. Shaw Jr. lifted his hand, halting whatever reply he was going to get.

“I have resources and I have power.”

“Only enough to actually join the game,” Percival intervened.

“Oh no, I had those for ages. Now I got the security I needed to take over. It’s starting, Mr. Graves. New York will be mine soon. I’m dominating the political arena right now. I may be just a Senator but everyone knows my name. Everyone knows the influence it has here.” He waved with the hand holding the glass, indicating at the city that laid beyond. You could not see the city lights from this side of the estate but he was counting on his audience having vivid imagination.

“Senator,” Percival started, not even a least bit threatened. He had broken enough of young power-hungry fools. “I don’t think you understand how this city works.”

“But I do. I assure you, Mr. Graves. Many of the gangs had already bowed down to me. It’s easy to buy their allegiance when you know exactly what coin to use.” His smirk was ugly. For the first time that evening Percival felt less sure in his own powers.

“Blackmail. Not very original. Effective, true. But only up to a certain point.” He tried to sound uncaring. He succeeded but it didn’t deter Shaw Jr.

“I had a long time to prepare. And some influential friends.” Shaw Jr. reassured with a nasty smirk. Form a small table by the bar he took a folder, threw it on a coffee table before Graves. “I’m sure you’ll find my work up to you standards, Mr. Graves.”

Percival pushed the folder open with a finger. His hand froze where it hovered over the first page – right over a photograph. It was black and white, grainy, taken from a security camera. It seemed this particular was chosen simply for the flair of dramatic it provided – there were enough opportunities to take a picture of Credence that would be of much better quality. This one seemed to be from the mall. It’s wasn’t particularly shocking. But what had Percival hesitating and holding his breath was the name at the top. _Credence Barebone_.

No one was supposed to know the real name. No one. Percival took care of that; he and his team had erased Credence Barebone from existence.

But here it was, coming up from the deep waters to swallow him.

“What is this?” He asked with a calm he didn’t feel.

“I’m pretty sure that’s your pet.” Shaw retorted harshly. Scrunched up his face in a disdainful frown. “Or do actually you call him a lover? I can never keep track with you gangsters.”

Percival rose to his feet. There was no use in hiding his agitation any more. He stepped up and loomed over Shaw. “You are playing a very dangerous game, Senator.”

Shaw glanced up at him, uncaring. “I don’t think so, Mr. Graves. I’ve got my winning hand and you,” he dared to stab his finger into Percival’s shoulder. “Are working for me now.”

Percival knew that keeping a level head in threatening situation was the best way, he knew that violence was only the last resort, he knew all that and he still grabbed Shaw Jr. by the lapels and shoved him into the cabinet. The man gasped, surprised. Finally, there was some fear in his eyes as he watched Percival’s enraged expression.

“I think there are some things you still don’t understand, Senator.” He said lowly, dangerously. “There is a reason why others don’t cross me.”

He lifted Shaw up until the man was balancing on his toes and threw him to the floor. Shaw cried out, more surprise than pain and struggled to lift on one elbow to look back at Graves. His eyes were full of fury. Unexpected, Percival thought he’d go sniveling at the first sign of violence. He advanced on Senator’s sprawled figure, loomed over him with a feeling of dark satisfaction. Held his gaze as he spoke. “There are secrets for which I will not hesitate to kill.”

Shaw was watching back, face - a mask crumbling the edges. Finally he dragged himself backwards a little and reached for the folder on the low table. “Fine.” He spit out.

Percival had to tear the documents from his resisting grasp. He looked over the papers, noting even further damning evidence. “Obviously, this is not the only copy,” he muttered as if to himself. But he knew Shaw had heard, glanced back down expecting an answer.

Shaw shook his head. Blond hair was falling over his forehead and Percival particularly enjoyed the disheveled look – it definitely took the man down a peg. “The safe.” The Senator panted. He wasn’t hurt that badly but he was obviously choking on his fury and inability to act on it. Percival waved him away graciously, and then tapped his foot expectantly. Shaw stumbled to his feet and to the desk. He leaned over the drawer on the left, sound of an electrical lock being deactivated loud in the following silence. Shaw glared at him from under the curtain of blond hair. His lips formed a snarl when he picked an identical folder and threw it on the table. Percival’s attention was drawn to it immediately. His hold tightened over the one already in his hand and he leaned over the desk to peer at the other.

That’s when he noticed movement from the corner of his eye.

He should have known Shaw would not give up this easily. The mad fire in his pretty blue eyes should have flashed as a bright warning sign. It didn’t, and Percival was too focused on getting the evidence and almost paid with his life for it.

He ducked just in time to avoid a shot to the face.

Shaw screeched like an animal and dove over the desk for Percival. He was handling the gun carelessly, finger on the trigger while he waved his hand around to try and get his target in his sights. Another cry filled the room when he couldn’t and he rushed around the sofa where Percival was hiding. Random shots filled the air, none hitting the target.

“Graves!” He shouted angrily.

Percival overturned the table and ducked for cover. The Senator was screaming at him from the other side of the room like a petulant child not getting what he wanted, but at least he had stopped firing. Percival was trying to come up with a plan to either calm him down or kill. He’d take any option now. Except _he_ had decided to leave his weaponry at home, not expecting the social gathering to turn into a shootout.

Bert and Tony were waiting downstairs and Percival was just figuring out if he could risk making a call when the doors of the study were forcefully thrown open. The Senator shouted and turned, raising a gun, and fell back to the floor – another scream stuck in his throat and a hole in his forehead. Percival peered from around the table.

To the breathtaking sight of Credence, his beautiful Credence, gun still smoking in his hand, expression stormy and eyes dark. He sought out Percival and only when he was sure there was no more threat for them, lowered his hand. He stepped over the body to help Percival up.

“Are you hurt?”

Percival shook his head. Credence glanced back at the prone form of the new Senator. A bloody halo was slowly growing around his head, soaking into the carpet. “Should I not have done that?” Credence asked nodding at the body.

 “No, you did good.” Percival promised. He took the gun from him and tucked it back into the waistband of Credence’s dress pants. “Let’s go.”

They passed the waiting room, two bodies of the guards laid before the doors, and hurried down to the first floor. Percival was clutching Credence’s wrist in one hand and the two folders in the other. His men met them at the door and James took almost no time in getting the car to the front steps. They left promptly, but not in a hurry, hoping no one was paying them much attention.

As Percival turned away from the big house to stare at the road ahead, he felt a sense of foreboding take over. It was risky, what they did that night. But he had resources and contacts to cover it up, to disconnect them from the murder of a Senator. It wasn’t the first time. It certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Credence leaned his head on his shoulder, fingers playing with Percival’s in his lap.

“What is that?” He asked tentatively.

Percival relaxed his hold on the folders and brushed it off, “Nothing to worry about.”

“Hm…Alright,” Credence mumbled sleepily and burrowed in his shoulder even more.

It was long night. But it was over. They were safe again, Percival reminded himself.

It was only when they got to the mansion and he went to deposit the folder into his own safe that he noticed one of the pages missing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of characters here. A couple of OCs and most of the canon characters. It's been a while since I saw the movie but I hope I'm managing to keep them in character.
> 
> Plus, my knowledge of US police comes only from movies and TV shows (and who am I kidding, mostly from B99) so please forgive the inaccurances.
> 
> Also a warning - lots of drama ahead!

Timothy had been running the pub for ages now. At least it felt like that to him, stuck in this damp since his early years. It belonged to his father and his grandfather before that – a family business, Grandfather Emmet used to say proudly. More like a family relic, Timothy would always correct in his head. Though a relic or not, it was a business and it brought in some money. Significantly less these days, when it was running point for the local mob but some of the guys still stopped by for a beer and a chat. Timothy was on the outskirts of things, close enough to know the names and some dealings, but far enough not to get into the details and stay safe. Still on the right side of the law. The guys, who knew his stance on dirty business – everything was fine as long as it didn’t concern him personally – felt safe to drown their woes at his pub. They shared some things: talks about big deals and shifts of power in town, but never got into details and Timothy was just fine with that. He liked gossip enough but not when it could get him killed.

The pub was decorated in greens and golds, old murals colorfully announcing Ireland as its home country. And Timothy’s ancestors were Irish – many generations ago, but what was left of that legacy had dispersed and mellowed, mixed by the beautiful looks of American women and their easy way of speaking. Timothy didn’t have an accent and he had no red hair. He wasn’t into leprechauns either – he was meaning to paint over the mural over the bar for ages. A grinning face of a man with a red beard and green top hat was very disturbing. The customers liked it though; they ate up every ‘Irish’ thing the pub had to offer, no mind that pubs in Ireland were not ordinarily painted green and spotting rainbows on the ceiling.

Timothy was contemplating the bright eyes of the leprechaun – they followed him whenever he moved – when a new face shoved through the door. The man was nicely dressed if rumpled slightly and eyed the pub with a hint of distaste. He approached the bar and leaned over tensely; his eyes searched Timothy’s face. “Hey, there.” The man had said. He sounded significantly more cheerful than he looked.

“Hello,” Timothy replied cordially but cautiously. He wasn’t very fond of strangers. In his line of business they meant nothing but trouble.

The man smiled: something very unpleasant sat in the easy curl of his lips. “I heard this is the place to go to. If one is looking for information.”

“Not sure what you mean, pal.” Timothy retorted. Less cordial with every second.

“Graves. Percival Graves.” The man gave a little nod. “You must have heard about me.”

Timothy did. Who didn’t anyway? Graves was one of the key players in New York, a big boss with a serious organization to back him up. Everyone knew the name; not many could actually recognize the face. Timothy gave the guy a better look: he wore a nice suit, designer maybe but Timothy didn’t have an eye for that really, had a whole look about him – prim and kinda posh. Through the window he could see a nice black car waiting at the curb.

“Alright, Mr. Graves,” he conceded. “What are you having?”

“Just information.” Graves replied and slapped a banknote on the bar. “I am looking for a child.”

“A child?” Well if that didn’t sound creepy as hell.

“They were at the center of a vicious murder three years ago. At the church nearby.”

“Ah…” Timothy squirmed as a cold shiver ran down his spine. That was one crazy case. No one really knew what had happened; only that a woman who ran the church and her oldest daughter were found dead by the kids who dropped by in the morning. Mrs. Barebone, an unpleasant woman all around, had one redeeming feature. She ran a soup kitchen and a shelter for homeless kids. They came in every morning and she gave them leaflets – some ridiculous propaganda – to give away. In the evening she served them a warm meal and gave them a place to stay if they needed. Mary Lou and her family lived at the upper level of the old church.

That night no kids were sleeping on the pews. The church was deserted safe for its usual inhabitants. Some people said later, they had heard screams but in truth the building stood away from all the houses and it was really hard to hear anything going on inside. Some people claimed they saw a car arrive sometime in the early hours of the morning. Timothy didn’t know what to believe; as a man who collected gossip he was well aware of how much shit people talked. He only knew the hard facts: two people dead, viciously murdered, and two had disappeared. Rumors were, it was the youngest daughter who did it – she always had this strange air about her. Calculating eyes paired with false sweet smiles. Though to be fair, the whole family had been off. Maybe the older daughter had been fine, engaged to some guy in the neighborhood, but the others…The mother was an overzealous catholic, spewing homophobic and racist slogans and tying to drill them into the kids that came by. That didn’t work so well for her, the church stood in ruins even when the family still lived there. The son, that one was plainly weird. Antisocial and awkward as hell. As far as gossip went some people claimed he had been found dead in a ditch a couple days after the murder at the church. Which left only the little girl, the youngest. Some of the more vicious hags on the block screamed that she was the one who killed her whole family. Timothy thought it to be utter bullshit. Wasn’t much of a ‘family’ anyway.

“I don’t know much about that,” Timothy said to the stranger. It was the truth, but also not. “What was he name? Melody or something?..”

“Modesty.” Graves corrected. “That’s not an ordinary name, is it?”

“I guess, it’s not.” Timothy frowned. The man was making him uneasy. “What you want with her anyway?”

A cryptic smile slowly took over Graves’s features; it only intensified the unpleasant feeling in Timothy’s gut.

“So do you know anything?” The man pressed. His voice took a dangerous shade as he leaned over the bar and watched Timothy for a reaction. Timothy gulped.

  
“Not much,” he blurted out. And then he told Graves what he remembered.

 

* * *

 

 

Goldstein was not having a good day. Though if one was to speak boldly, she was not having a good week. Not a good month either. Alright, maybe a year. Was it possible to have a bad year? Ever since she got demoted, thrown from a position of a detective to evidence. Evidence. If they wanted her out of detective department they could have at least made her a beat cop. That would at least have given her some action. But no, she was rotting away behind piles of paperwork with no hope of ever seeing the light of day. Quinnie said she complained too much but Goldstain believed it was well-deserved. She needed action.  
Instead, she was sitting at the musty office somewhere underground and processed evidence.

  
Goldstein brushed at the mustard stain at the front of her uniform but only managed to make it worse. With a dejected sigh she abandoned the task all together – no one really came by at this time of day anyway.

  
Just her luck that half hour later, when the stain already dried up and crusted right above her name tag, a group of detectives had shown up. She heard their voices first, going down the stairs, and craned her neck to get a better look. Abernathy was standing by the door, politely letting in a woman in uniform and two men in civil clothes that followed her. Goldstein recognized her immediately.

  
“Commissioner Picquery.” She exclaimed and bolted from her chair to stand straight. It was unusual for higher ups to show down here.

  
“Sergeant Goldstein,” the woman gave a warm but reserved smile. “We are here for the Barebone case.”

  
Tina frowned at her superiors, lost for a second. “Barebone?” The name brought a lot of unpleasant memories but with them a tang of grief.

  
“Yes, Goldstein. We need the evidence for that case.” Abernathy intervened when she was taking too long to move. He added, pointedly. “Please.”

  
Tina still watched the Commissioner and two detectives who came with her wearily. With a heavy dose of hesitation she said, “But that case was closed years ago.”

  
“Some new information had come to light. So we need to review the evidence.” Commissioner Piquery replied. She was detached but not cold – she knew the importance of that particular case. Tine nodded jerkily, accepting a meager explanation but paused still as her eyes trailed from the woman to the people at her back. Detectives, she understood. But why was Commissioner herself leading them to get the evidence – that was a mystery. One that Tine did not like.

  
“Wait just a moment please.” She said politely and retreated back into the evidence room. She scanned the shelves as she walked but her attention was wandering and she had to go by the same section twice. The Barebone case was a strange one. She had already been demoted when the murder happened but she remembered the uproar it had stirred. The yellow press speculated freely while the more respectful editions probed and prodded trying to get to the truth. The public was torn between horror and grim satisfaction. Mary Lou Barebone had gathered quite a lot of enemies in the neighborhood. Her narrow-minded ideals did not suit the modern world, as well as her methods in upbringing. Tina still felt the traces of blinding anger when she thought about it. That anger had cost her the favorite job but she couldn’t regret her actions. She would do it again, if she could.

  
Tina shook her head to throw away the thought. Her yes snatched on a familiar name on the box and it reminded her sharply that the woman she was fantasizing about hitting in the face was dead. Murdered viciously. That was a sobering thought. She gathered the box in her hands, it was big but pretty light and headed for the exit.

  
After a quick investigation the murder was proclaimed a robbery attempt. Some thug saw the kids gathering money on the streets and thought he could get himself some of that charity. When it turned out the family had nothing he turned on them and killed. Most likely, Mary Lou had some choice words to say to him that provoked the guy. He had been caught only a day later and admitted his guilt, accepting the charges. The trial too was very quick and soon he was behind bars and the case forgotten by most.

  
“Nothing much there,” Tina said as she put the box on the counter. Some papers – Mary Lou’s leaflets – some pieces of clothing and the murder weapon: a hefty kitchen knife.

  
“Thank you, Goldstein.” The Commissioner stepped aside to let one of the detectives take the box.

  
They waited in silence while the man carefully gathered it in his arms, trying to find a comfortable position. Tina was practically bouncing on her feet, debating with herself whether she should ask the question nagging at her. Abernathy was eyeing her suspiciously as if he knew what was on her mind. Insubordination, that’s what.

  
“Commissioner Picquery,” she blurted out when the four turned to the door. The woman lifted her eyebrows questioningly and hushed Abernathy when he tried to usher her away. “What new information?”

  
The woman kept silent or a long moment, her expression pensive. Finally, she said carefully. “Credence Barebone was spotted a couple of days ago.”

  
Tina felt the words settle as a heavy weight on her shoulders. She flopped back in the chair as they turned to leave, her weak goodbye unheard by anyone in the party.

  
That couldn’t be true, she thought. And still if the old case was up for investigation again it must be so. Credence Barebone had been proclaimed dead a long time ago. Two days after the murder a body had been found just a block from the church. It was almost unidentifiable, the face eaten away by rats and stray dogs. They needed to run tests at the lab to finally ascertain that it was Mary Lou Barebone’s only step-son. The burglar had admitted that the young man tried to catch him, ran out in pursuit and got a knife in the guts for his trouble. Modesty Barebone had disappeared. Detective on the case thought she might have used the commotion to run away. No one would blame her.  
But if Credence was alive – Tina’s mind flashed with an image of a cowering young man, weak and alone – that unraveled the whole thread.

 

* * *

  
Percival knew he shouldn’t but the temptation was too big. He had woken up to Credence sleepily clinging to his arm and absolutely refusing to let go. Percival thought is terribly endearing. That was his mistake number one. Instead of dragging himself out of bed he wallowed for a couple minutes more and then for a half hour and after that Credence had woken up, pressed a sleepy kiss to his chest and dragged Percival with him into the shower. That was number two. And now they were sitting on the terrace, a morning pleasantly warm for spring, and having breakfast.

  
There was a paper before him but the printed words couldn’t hold his attention for long; it kept slipping to the young man across the table from him. A recent development: Credence took to stealing his shirts, turned out to be a horrible distraction. Even now, head bowed over a tablet so the hair fell into his eyes, obscuring half of that lovely face, he spotted a simple white button down, slightly big for his frame and hanging loosely from his thin shoulders. It was unbuttoned just on the wrong side of indecent, showing off pale skin and sharp collarbones. Cuffs rolled up but still falling over delicate wrists. He looked so fragile like this. Deceptively so. Because Credence might look delicate, with his pale skin and narrow frame, but he was not weak. Both dangerous and beautiful. Percival loved every side of him.

  
A throat clearing tore Percival from his studious contemplation of Credence’s elegant neck and a mark, already fading at the base of it.

  
“Your phone, Mr. Graves.” Stradford announced tersely. But Percival could see that underneath the cold demeanor the old man was laughing at him.

  
He snatched the phone from where it was vibrating on the table top, painfully aware of how late he was. He accepted the call and waited for the person on the other end to talk.  
“We have a problem.” A harsh voice that came through the speaker was unexpected.

  
Percival frowned at his coffee cup but didn’t reply. There was no need to, the voice kept talking, rapidly and out of breath.  
“A big problem. All of us. A total shitstorm.”

  
It wasn’t like Smith to be so dramatic. Percival was about to comment on that but the man’s next words stopped him dead. He felt cold slither in his chest, an uncomfortable coil of a snake nestling.

  
“They are reopening the Barebone case.” Smith sounded frantic. He had been working with the NYPD for five years now, two of which he had been Graves’s informant. A man to smooth out the sharp corners and give a warning whenever the cops go too close. A reliable man in a good position and with a healthy thirst for money.

  
“Can you stop it?” Percival asked. He lowered his voice as not to attract attention and still Credence’s head snapped up at the first hint of worry in his tone. Black eyes studied him, a silent question in their depths. Percival gave a small smile but it probably looked too tense to be believable. Anyway, Credence only narrowed his eyes.

  
“No.” The word fell like a drop of lead in his guts. Smith continued. “The orders came from up high. I don’t know what is happening, only that the case is reopened. They came back for the evidence.”

  
Percival didn’t need to tell the man how bad it was, Smith understood the situation perfectly. He had to pull on too many strings to arrange that particular matter. Percival provided a volunteer criminal, who confessed to the crime and got a generous refund with a bonus of a very good lawyer. His people found a body that matched the criteria and hid away little Miss Barebone. Everything else Smith did for them. Taking care of forensics, adding pressure to have the case closed as soon as possible. It was hard: one huge task that involved way too many people and way too many pressure points. Just one tear and everything could fall apart. Many people would be out of the job and even more facing charges. Smith would be the first in line.

  
“Do you know why?” Percival asked, keeping his tone level. Credence was still watching, his hands idly playing with a napkin on the table.

  
“No.” Smith sounded desperate for a moment; but he was an intelligent man, he knew falling apart would be counterproductive. Percival heard him breathe deeply, take calming draught on his cigarette. He sounded calmer when he spoke next. “I’ll find out.”

  
“Good.”

  
“But I need to know you have my back.”

  
“Of course,” Percival pressed reassurance into his voice. He needed this man on his side. “As always.”

  
“Alright.” Smith groused; another puff of smoke against the receiver. “Alright.” And he hang up.

  
“Something wrong?” Credence’s question came quick, even before Percival could put down the phone.

  
Percival took him in: crouched in a chair and leaning over in concern. A warm breeze played with his hair, it had been growing longer still, and the sun warmed his skin.

  
“I can handle it.” Percival promised; except, Credence didn’t know it was promise. Didn’t need to know all the hard details. “Don’t worry.”

  
Percival was resolute to keep his peace intact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I know I'm late to replying to comments but I'll catch up on that soon! Thank you all who reviews! It gives me motivation to continue:D)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who comments! Every comment is a boost to my confidence and a new inspiration! I'm still working on the last chapter but I hope I'll finish it soon! (My Internet connect had not been working properly lately but it should be fine from now on)
> 
> I adore Queenie and I think it shows;) Haha, but honestly she is so amazing! I love all the FB main characters so you will see most of them in this story.

“Queenie.” Tina waved a spoon before her sister’s face. When that didn’t work, she repeated more harshly. “Queenie! Stop making eyes at the baker.”

Queenie sent one more sweet smile in the direction of the counter, tilting her head just right so that the light caught in her golden curls and made them shine beautifully, and turned to Tina with a pout. “Sorry, I can’t help it. His reaction is so cute.”

Tina glanced over her shoulder to the man at the register, his fingers slack over a bright bow he was tying on a box of pastry and a dazed smile still plastered over his face. He did seem…sweet. If a little dim-witted with that absent expression. But then again, every man did when Queenie smiled at them.

“What is it you wanted to talk about?” Her sister asked pulling Tina’s mind back on track.

Tina dug a spoon into her desert, making a mess of it – and leaned over the table, beckoning for Queenie to do the same. She glanced around the café, but it was half-empty as the lunch rush was already over. There was no one to overhear. “I need you to find out something for me.”

Queenie lifted her eyebrows, amused by the conspiracy setting. Her hands settled around a warm cup of tea as she waited for Tina to continue.

“The Barebone case had been reopened. I need to know why.” Tina whispered quickly and settled back to watch the play of emotion on her sister’s face. Queenie’s features pulled into a light frown first, an expression most men found incredibly adorable, and then the lines of sadness settled around her bright eyes.

“Barebone…” She muttered under the breath. “Is that the boy…”

“Yes.” Tina replied before the end of that sentence. “And his family. Do you remember? It was a big case.” After a beat, gravely, she added. “A murder.”

Queenie nodded quietly. He fingers tapped a rhythm on the porcelain before she took a sip of her tea. Of course, she remembered; not only because the media dredged the case for smallest details and threw them in the spotlight, but also because of the weight of personal responsibility that had crashed Tina after she heard the news.  

“They say new evidence came to light. Can you find out what it is?” Tina pleaded.

Queenie was watching her wearily, worry painted over her delicate features. She reached out and put her had on top of Tina’s. “Are you sure?” She asked carefully.

Tina did not rush with an answer. It was something she had been wondering herself. Ever since the news came to light she had been agitated, worry buzzing inside and intruding upon her every thought. Did she want to bring all that back? She had tried to help once and she failed. She failed that poor young man; in the end, she wasn’t able to protect him neither from the abusive mother nor from the cruel fate that caught up to him. She failed herself: one stupid act had brought down her career with no possibility of pardon. But worse than that was a nagging idea, that if she had not stood up to Mary Lou Barebone that night she might have been able to help when the following happened. Assaulting a civilian was a heavy charge, unforgivable. Tina should have lost her job but her seniors knew about the situation at the Barebone church, even though no one was ready to take any action.

She looked down at the table; her sister’s delicate hand covering hers, offering support. “Yes.” She replied, looking up and locking her eyes with Queenie. “Yes. Please. I need to know.”

Maybe this time she would not be so useless.

 

* * *

 

Credence read the first line of the chapter. Then again. Again. He could not concentrate and the words, while seen by his eyes would not settle in his brain. It was a shame, he was just getting to the interesting part.

Mr. Graves was watching him. He sat at the desk, documents before him, pretending to work, but in truth, he kept sneaking glances at Credence every couple of minutes; and he had been stuck on the same document for almost an hour now. Just as Credence could not move on with his reading. It was unnerving, just a bit. Credence always felt a small jolt of nerves whenever he caught Mr. Graves watching. A worry: did Mr. Graves still like what he saw? And then, swiftly replaced by a tingle of pleasure: Mr. Graves was watching _him_ , distracted from his work by mere presence of Credence. He hid a smile behind the leather spine of the book.

Mr. Graves ducked his head, pretending to scan the paper before him, but it was futile – in the next moment his eyes were fixed on Credence once again. It was serious, that gaze. Credence suspected, it wasn’t lust that directed the other man’s interest this time. The feeling curled into an unpleasant ball in his chest, tight and heavy. The prolonged silence was not making it better. Half an hour later Mr. Stradford came by the study and placed a tray with lunch onto the coffee table. Credence eyed the plate contemplatively but didn’t move.

He turned to the book, trying to ignore the tense atmosphere of the room. Still he did not want to leave; even like that, he still preferred staying in Mr. Graves’s company.

Credence heard the papers rustle; the sound had an air of finality to it and in the next moment Mr. Graves was sitting on the couch near him. Immediately, Credence put away the book, not bothering to mark his place. His eyes sought out Mr. Graves’s. He took a breath and braced for whatever was coming.

Frown lines were creasing the man’s brow; Credence wanted to reach out and smooth them with his fingertips, then follow the path with his lips. Softly and carefully.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Graves asked.

Credence stared back, dumbfounded by the concern. Mr. Graves’s narrowed eyes were not hostile as Credence expected.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

It was impossible to read the silence that followed. Credence sat still, hands clasped in his lap, and waited. He wasn’t sure what the conversation was about. He expected Mr. Graves to berate him for what had happened at the party, what _Credence had done_. But the concern, so familiar now, was still surprising; mostly because Credence himself didn’t feel any different.

Mr. Graves moved, sliding his hand to caress Credence’s cheek. His palm was warm against the cold skin, touch gentle as always. Their eyes locked and Credence’s pulse picked up.

“Are you sure?”

“Mr. Graves,” Credence said, bravely scooting closer. “I…I would do anything to help you. To protect you.”

“You stole my line,” Mr. Graves joked. His voice was low and sweet, just as the words he muttered. “You know I feel the same way. That is why I need to know that you are fine. With what had happened.”

Credence’s next words were very carefully chosen. “Death doesn’t bother me.” That sounded wrong still. How do you say that you didn’t care about death as long as it didn’t concern anyone you loved? “I don’t regret what I did. It was to protect you. And I will do it again if a situation calls for it. Anything,” his breath stuttered as desperation colored his tone. Credence had to swallow against the sudden tightness of his throat and start again. “Anything for you.”

Mr. Graves kissed him. Even before the sound of those words had died down, Mr. Graves’s lips were on his, hungry. The kiss felt like a relief, an outpour of raw emotions that had been brewing for days now and finally found an outlet. Mr. Graves’s touch was gentle but the scrape of teeth over Credence’s bottom lip was harsh. He bit down in reply – he felt a rumble of a moan resonate in Mr. Graves’s chest. He gripped the man’s shirt, tugging on it until they both sprawled over the couch, Mr. Graves hovering above him.

It was a new kind of lust, tinted crimson.

 

* * *

 

Seraphina Picquery was exhausted. It wouldn’t be proper for a commissioner to show that kind of weakness, especially at such a difficult time, but in the privacy of her own office she could lean back in her chair, close her eyes and just breathe. A death of a Senator, at his own party to boot – the pressure from upstairs was palpable, demanding results and, even though they had leads, they were nowhere near to producing clear results. The case was only getting more complicated with every new uncovered detail. Add to that possible ties to the mafia – and you got a whole mess on your hands and a terrible headache blowing your mind.

On her desk were strewn photos: grainy black and white shots, screen caps from a security footage. Once they knew to look for him it turned out he was practically everywhere. Shots of Credence Barebone out in the city, getting into an obscure black car, walking aimlessly around a mall…The quality of pictures was bad but enough to identify the person in them. A young man, dark hair longer than in the old case file, but with the same gaunt features. He looked nothing like the bashful recluse she remembered – and she did only see him once – but still he possessed remarkable features. Back then, Picquery barely paid the boy any mind. She knew enough details of his story; shouted angrily at her by a tiny but fierce Tina Goldstain. However, at that time all reason was overshadowed by Goldstein’s misconception.  Police brutality was not a charge to be trifled with.

Baredbone was adamant in her demands of retribution and no one had the time to pay any mind to her children. Tina was furious, of course, but subdued under the risk of losing her job. Probably, they should have listened to her more carefully.

Picquery considered, for a long moment, bringing the girl into the case; she could be an asset to the investigation and, well, everyone knew she had suffered enough in that little room in the basement. She was a good detective, the only flaw that she allowed her emotions rule more often than not. Picquery allowed herself a moment to dwell on the idea but she knew already it was futile.

A knock saved her from the depressing thoughts; she sat straight and righted her hair before inviting the person in.

 “Captain Smith. I don’t remember any appointment on my schedule.” She was smiling as she said it though and the man stepped inside freely.

“I was around.” He said. “Some issue with public relations. Thought I’d drop by.”

He sent her way a blinding grin and slid a coffee cup over the desk. His gaze flittered over the files briefly before she removed them to make some space.

“How is your day going?”

Admitting to having difficulties with the case was above her so she waved her hand at him – a vague gesture with no real meaning. Smith nodded as if he still understood. “Well, here I am to cheer you up.”

 

* * *

 

The door clattered noisily and Tina jerked to a more appropriate position.

“Sleeping on a job?” Queenie laughed as she closed it shut after her, with more care this time.

Tina was about to protest, but there was no way to defend her honor. She was dozing off – the job was unbelievably boring and occasional interludes of actual work did not do much to dispel the tediousness. Instead, she shuffled a few folders on the desk, playing at being busy while Queenie hovered nearby.

“Did you find something?”

Even across the room she could see the way her sister scrunched her face, showing offence at such a distasteful turn of phrase. “I heard something.” Queenie announced gleefully.

“Gossip?”

“It’s my area of expertise,” the blonde retorted defensively as she bounded to Tina’s table. “I think you’ll be interested to hear this particular rumor. It has all the upper floors in the uproar.”

“So something big is happening?” Tina summarized. She hated to be out of the loop, buried down here while all the real work was going over her head.

“Apparently,” Queenie put her palms flat on the table and leaned in to whisper. “Credence Barebone had been spotted.” She looked around as if to belatedly check for any eavesdroppers. It gave Tina a moment to compose herself.

“Are they sure?” Her voice still sounded unsteady but Queenie didn’t comment. She replied, softly:

“Yes.” Her compassionate eyes met Tina’s. Queenie bit her lip, reluctant to continue. “Apparently a page from a file was discovered at the crime scene. The crime being the murder of Senator Shaw. Not just any file though. This one seemed to contain information about Credence Barebone. It was only the first page, but the picture was new so they realized that he was, in fact, alive. He is actually the main suspect.”

“Credence…” She could taste the shock on her tongue. It had a bitter tang. “It can’t be…”

“They are quite sure.” Queenie protested apologetically. “Once they knew he was alive, the new information started trickling in. Him, being spotted around the city…”

A comforting hand settled on Tina’s shoulder. Queenie squeezed and let go, giving her sister space. “I cannot get more details. Sorry.”

Tina shook her head, waving away the apology: Queenie had done enough already.

“I should run,” she said. “My break isn’t even in an hour yet.”

She leaned over to squeeze Tina’s shoulder comfortingly one more time, catching her eyes. “Will you be alright?”

Tina’s forced smile felt weak but it was enough to dissipate some of the worry. “I’m fine.”

Queenie’s face cleared and she turned to leave. “See you at lunch!” She waved and disappeared up the stairs, only leaving a trace of her sweet perfume in the air.

But at lunch Tina texted her sister that she was too busy to meet and headed out. The old church was a long distance away so she had to grab a taxi; the ride was spent nervously fiddling with a phone in her hands. No matter what everyone said, no matter what she had said to herself earlier – she just could not stay away from the case. It was personal; too much so for her to think clearly, and Tina knew that, but still she stepped out of the car near the old gothic church. The building was crumbling with no one to look after it and, even in the light of day, it stood out gloomily. There were no houses in direct vicinity; it must have had large grounds in its prime years, but what was left now was dust and stones.

Tina looked down the street, noticing a few passers-by: a couple of homeless kids playing on the pavement and a few drunks by the pub windows. The picture looked so detached, so out of time. Just around the block was the place Mary Lou Barebone had chosen for her public teachings. She used to get up on the steps of the library and spew her hateful sermons at strangers. Some stopped to listen, but most ignored the woman. With a feverish fire in her eyes Mary Lou only shouted louder, her voice getting angrier with every scornful glare sent her way. 

It was a sermon like that one that made Tina stop by. Repulsed by the disgusting lectures, she hung at the edge of the crowd. Soon her gaze wondered and her eyes were drawn to a young man a step behind Mary Lou. In his hands he was holding a bunch of leaflets clumsily; they kept slipping and he tried to catch them discreetly; his gaze kept skipping to Mary Lou to check if she had noticed his missteps. He looked miserable and, Tina realized, scared. He flinched as the woman at the front delivered a particularly vicious line. When the lecture was over Mary Lou stepped down the steps, walking proudly through the crowd, and the young man trailed pitifully after her.

It was only later that Tina learned is name. He was Credence Barebone, Mary Lou’s stepson. Rumors about him circulated in the district, most scornful but some merely sad. He carried the brunt of Mary Lou’s anger. Tina knew what the right thing to do was – go through official channels, help him. But he wasn’t underage, as she first thought, his hunched statue made him seem younger than he actually was, and he wasn’t pressing charges and no matter how hard she tried to persuade him, catching a moment for a short whispered conversation on the streets, he would not change his mind. Tina was growing desperate. She was also getting angry. At herself. At the society. And, most of all, at Mary Lou Barebone. It was only a matter of time when she would snap.

Tina was a sensible woman. Anyone would tell you so.  But even she could not watch Mary Lou strike her step son for merely speaking out of turn. Tina tried to intervene, she tried to reason, but Mary Lou was unbearable, so sure in her right to do as she pleased. So confident that she was _right_.

Tina slapped her. Just once and regretted the action as soon as she realized that it was her hand that left a stinging red mark on Mary Lou’s cheek. A litany of apologies filled the deafening silence but there was no reasoning with Mary Lou.

That was the story of how Tina lost her job. That was also a reminder of how a piece of her soul broke: a small but essential cog that made her believe in social justice. She still stood by the law and the police but she knew that they could not help everyone. Sometimes, there was no safe way out.

And sometimes, it got even worse.

Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she stepped into the church. Everything was as at the night of the murder. No one came by the cursed place since.

Dark traces on the floor could be rainwater or could be blood; in the dark, you would not know the difference unless you had been here during the aftermath. Tina wasn’t, but she had seen the crime scene photos. There, under the broken banister, Mary Lou had lain, broken and bloody. In Tina’s memory, one picture stood out: of her face all twisted in fear and her eyes, empty. A few feet away was another body.

Tina felt a shiver down her spine, a draft like a cold breath on her neck. No wonder people stayed away from this place. Dark grey walls bounced off every rustle of cloth, every whisper of breath. Each sound spread and multiplied until it turned into something unrecognizable and sinister. The only light was the one that reached from the outside, through dirty stained glass windows; it was meager and only added to the gloom.

Tina knew that upstairs would be the rooms, each small and drab with merely any personal belongings in sight. Police seized some as evidence but even before that, there was almost nothing.

What was she doing here? Looking for clues left over from years before? It was ridiculous. And still it felt like the very atmosphere of the place could lead her on the right path.

Her phone ringing was a startling wake up call. Tina scrambled into her pocket, trying to fish it out from the mess of keys and candy wrappers. Queenie’s face beamed up at her from the screen.

“Hello.”

“I heard something else,” he sister started without preamble. “A name.”

“A name?” Tina frowned at her feet. She pushed aside a piece of rubble and it left a dust spot of her shoe.

“Yes,” there was urgency in Queenie’s voice. Not the usual excited kind. “All the higher ups are talking about it. Something about a world-known criminal.”

“Does it have anything to do with the Barebone case?”

 _Barebone_. The wind picked up the name and it echoed off the walls like ghosts of the days long gone.

 “I’m not sure…” Queenie paused. “But I thought you might want to know.”

“Sure.” Tina replied. Any information could be useful; especially when she had no idea what she was looking for. “What name?”

“Grindewald.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for skipping posting last week! The beginning of April was truly terrible and I wasn't in the mindset for wrtiting or even editing. I really appreciate your comments and hope you are still interested in this story!

_This is such a mess._

The thought kept running on repeat in Commissioner Picquery’s mind. Some coffee with Captain Smith helped to ease off the headache but only for a couple hours.

Later in the evening she got a call. A man on the other end sounded official and authoritative, just the kind she hated dealing with. The news he brought were even worse.

Gellert Grindewald. A criminal lord, who managed to escape arrest in his homeland and, as sources stated, ran away to Europe. Even away from the base of his operation, even after his gang had been dismantled by the British police, he still had money and influence. The most troubling point though – no one knew what he looked like. His known associates refused to talk, and any witnesses where quickly dealt with. And, apparently, he was on his way to USA.

Was it a ridiculous coincidence that just that morning NYPD had picked up a suspicious British man with contraband in his suitcase? Granted, the contraband consisted mostly of flower seeds and one tiny animal that was yet to be identified, but with the ‘Grindewald alert’ they had to be extra careful.

Picquery hailed a couple of detectives on her way to the interrogation room, asking for progress report on the Shaw case. They weren’t very forthcoming as no new information had come to light, and it only added to the list of things that were going wrong on that day.

“What about Barebone then?” She asked while they piled into the room behind the two-way glass.

On the other side, a young man sat behind the metal table, cuffed hands clasped together. His head was bowed and a mess of honey-colored curls obscured his face. He didn’t look like a criminal. Then again, rarely anyone did.

“Looking for him.” One of the detectives at her side replied.

She narrowed her eyes – the only show of her displeasure, and dismissed them. Inside the room, another pair was leading an interrogation. She only hoped these two would prove to be more competent.

“Mr. Scamander.” The female officer was saying. She was sitting across from the man, her posture open and friendly. Picquery remembered her from a previous case – a woman who looked like a kindly matron but was in truth ruthless with her suspects. “You arrived in New York this morning, am I correct?”

“Yes,” the man stuttered out the reply, his voice unsure. He lifted his head, making his face visible, but would not meet anyone’s eyes. There was nothing particularly memorable about him, if one didn’t count the mess of freckles dusting his cheeks. Just a pleasant looking young man.

“Mr. Scamander, in your suitcase we found some unidentifiable substances. Would you care to explain what this is?” The officer carefully laid out a couple packets on the table. Dark substance, to the eye very much like dirt, could be seen through clear plastic packaging. The lab was still working to identify those.

“It’s just fertilizer.” Scamander explained. He sounded so earnest and still there was something shifty in how he avoided the interrogator’s eyes and how he kept clasping and unclasping his hands. Long spidery fingers would not still for a moment.

“Sure.” Some steel had crept into the matronly tones. “Just not the type anyone had heard of before.”

“I do my own.” Scamander explained. “It’s my job.”

“Yes, we have heard about your job, Mr. Scamander.”

She kept repeating the last name but it didn’t have any effect. If their suspicious were right they probably would have been able to notice any discomfort whenever the officer addressed him, but it all seemed very natural. He was nervous, yes, but not as a person with a fake identity. Or he was simply an unparalleled actor.

“Mr. Scamaner,” the other detective interrupted. He leaned his hip on the table and crossed his hands, trying to look menacing. “Have you ever heard a name Gellert Grindewald?”

This time Scamander did flinch. His clasped hands tensed to the point where she could see the veins stand out even from the distance. “Yes.”

“Hm?”

“Everyone in the UK knows that name.” Scamander snapped. There was some fire behind that helpless façade after all. “He is a criminal.”

A pause hang in the air as the two detectives decided how to proceed. Picquery saw them swap glances, a silent communication with loaded looks.

“Have you ever sympathized with his methods, Mr. Scamander?”

The suspect threw a withering look to a woman that asked the question. His tone held fire when he replied, “Of course, no.”

“You have interesting history though.” Just as carefully the woman opened a file. “You travel a lot. You have been to many countries, just as Gellert Grindewald when he went on a run, and more than once you dropped off the radar. You must understand our suspicions.”

The young man leaned back in his seat, incredulous look on his face. “You think I am Grindewald?” His voice echoed in the small room, giving more force to his indignation.

Picquery pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling all the exhaustion creep up on her.

 

* * *

 

“Knock-knock!” Queenie called out melodically. Her knuckles rapped on the door and it swung inward with barely any pressure. Her smile waned as she leaned through the open doorway and peeked inside. It was empty.

Queenie clutched a file closer to her chest, glanced back at the empty hallway and slipped inside. Shouldn’t waste luck, she reasoned and grinned to herself. Her steps were light when she tiptoed across the floor and leaned over the desk, her eyes quickly scanning the documents.  She placed the folder still in her hands at the corner and carefully listed through the other papers. Snooping wasn’t an honorable pastime but when Tina needed information, Queenie came through for her favorite sister. Well, the only, sister, really. But it didn’t mean she wasn’t also a favorite.

 Queenie froze when she heard footsteps outside and held her breath until whoever it was passed. She did have a legitimate reason for being there – she was after all sent to deliver a new press release, however being found out going through Commissioner Piquery’s desk wouldn’t be productive for her career.

As the footsteps quieted she came to live again and grabbed a file from the top.

“Bingo.” Queenie muttered to herself.

Swiftly she laid it on the tabletop, open, and snapped a couple of pictures. There was not much in the file: a couple of shots of a young man who she recognized right away, a name and a list of locations. It looked like the police was still chasing Credence Barebone with barely any success. A mention of Percival Graves came up a couple times but it seemed there was no solid connection. That was a name not widely known by the public but the police was aware of his dealings. If only they could get any proof…

Queenie turned a page and took another picture with her phone. This one was about a girl. The police had found the youngest Barebone sibling, her location, her knew school, even her new family. Even not being a cop Queenie knew they wouldn’t go after the girl. Based on the file she had no connection to Credence anymore, so there was no reason to pay her a visit with all the madness going around. Still, Tina might find this interesting.

The last page, surprisingly, was about Gellert Grindewald. There was no picture but quite a lot of text. A lot about his past but not much about his present.

“Alright-y,” she muttered to herself, satisfied. Pushed the file she brought to the middle of the desk, and slipped out of the office.

She looked around once again but no one was paying her any mind. Queenie smiled at the passing Officer, always pleasant to her colleagues, and pressed speed dial on her phone. Tina picked up immediately.

“I have some information for you,” Queenie announced happily.

 

* * *

 

“We are leaving.” It was impossible to keep the urgency from his voice but Percival at least tried to act calm. Credence eyed him wearily and asked:

“Where are we going?”

He didn’t understand yet. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe Percival wouldn’t have to explain that they needed to uproot their life and run.

_It’s over. We are done._ Smith’s words still rung in his ears, hollow with defeat. There was nowhere for the captain to go, for them however…

“We are leaving town.” Percival said. Paused and then added snappishly. “Leaving country.”

Credence frowned; heavy lines crossed his forehead as he unfolded from the chair. The book got left behind, forgotten on the seat, as he reached out for Percival. “What is going on?” His hands were cold.

This was a mess - a mess of his doing nonetheless. But anyway, looking at Credence – his face marred with concern – he could not regret it. Percival Graves would be his own downfall. He did so much for a boy who had drawn his attention and then captivated him completely, and he would do more. At least one more thing to keep him safe.

“We need to leave,” he repeated gripping Credence’s hands. “Pack a bag, only the necessities. I’ll meet you by the car in fifteen minutes.” His lips were dry and cold when he kissed Credence but he tried to pour all the tenderness he felt into it. He then turned the young man to face the door and shoved him out in the direction of their room. While Credence took the offered path, sending one more confused glance his way, Percival rushed into the office. The safe opened easily at his touch and he dragged out the wads of cash, some gold and two stacks of fake documents. He shoved the later into the inner pocket of his coat.

Percival hesitated, standing in the middle of the office; he looked around, trying to remember if he had forgotten anything. Instead the pictures of the past came to his mind, happy moments spent right here. It was _the past_ now. Never to be repeated again. Who knew, they might find a new home abroad, but somehow this felt like an end of an era. He backed out of the room, turned sharply at the threshold.

Stradford had caught up with him on the stairwell. He didn’t ask, just fell into step and waited for directions.

“This is it.” Percival proclaimed. His voice was tinted with bitterness.

Stradford simply nodded, having come to the right conclusion already.

“Maybe we should burn the house,” Percival mused aloud, his gaze directed upwards to the tall ceiling of the main hall. Stradford bristled at his side.

“I’m not sure that is necessary, Sir.”

Percival glanced at him, “You are right. They have hard evidence against me; the house would make no difference.” He stopped before the large entry doors. “Let the staff go. Run yourself if you want. I know you have the money and the papers. Hell, you can come with us even.” He ran a hand through his hair agitatedly as he whirled to face Stradford. It seemed unfair to leave the man behind; he was nothing but a faithful servant for almost a decade now. Not to mention a trustful confidant and a good friend.

Stradford inclined his head in a slight bow – an aftermath of his old-fashion upbringing. “Thank you, Sir. But I can take care of myself.”

Percival watched him but the old man’s face was impassive as usual. Finally, he nodded. “Alright. You can either play the fool and say you know nothing. Or you can tell them everything. It won’t make any difference.”

Stradford nodded once again. They stood in silence. Percival knew what was expected of him, leave and never look behind, but he had a sudden urge to give the old man a hug. He guessed it wouldn’t be appreciated though. Instead he pressed a hand on Stradford’s shoulder, one heavy pat of people saying goodbye forever, and left through the double doors.

Credence was waiting for him outside. A duffle bag was at his feet but it looked like it wasn’t even half full. The young man looked lost; he turned to watch Percival approach, the old incomprehension in his eyes mixed with fear. An explanation could go a long way of making him feel better but Percival wasn’t sure how to approach that yet. He had suspicion that the young man might take the blame for their fall and Percival didn’t want the guilt eating away at him. It wasn’t his fault. It was no one’s fault really. It was just business.

Percival gave him a half hug and pressed a kiss to his temple; and then he got into the car, taking the driver’s place now, and drove them away. Credence was silent in the passenger seat, looking out the window. Percival glanced into the rear view mirror to catch a farewell glance at the house and reached for Credence’s hand.

“A private plane is waiting for us.” He said, making his tone level. “But first we need to make one more stop.”

“Where?”

Percival could hear the anxious notes so he squeezed Credence’s hand a little tighter as he replied. “Modesty.” It was the right thing to do, he told himself. It was a risk but he would never forgive himself if he skipped this step. “To say goodbye.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey!”

Newt startled, whirling around to face the door. The cuffs dug into his wrists painfully and jerked him back. He glared down at them minutely and turned at a more moderate pace. There was a face in the doorway: a young woman leaning on the door and waiting impatiently for him to notice.

“Hello,” Newt’s intonation suggested a question that his politeness prevented him from asking.

“You are Scamander, right?” the woman asked; the urgency in her tone made him even more nervous than her expression.

He nodded mutely. The woman gave a terse nod, leaned back to have a quick look outside and slipped into the interrogation room. Very carefully, she closed the door. Her eyes darted to the mirrored window at the far wall before she took a seat opposite of him.

“You are here because of the Grindewald investigation, right?”

“I am not Grindewald,” Newt defended immediately; he was getting tired of that conversation.

“I know,” she waved him off. “I need your help.” She leaned over the table. Her eyes were bright blue and intense.

Newt waited for her to continue but in the next moment her phone went off, signaling a new text. She glanced down at the screen in her hand, “We need to go.”

“What?”

But she was already taking out a key from a front pocket of her jacket and unlocking the cuffs; tugging at his hand when he refused to move. “I can’t just leave.”

“It’s alright,” she assured, but Newt didn’t feel very convinced. “I’m a police officer; I’m taking you into my custody.”

That sounded more or less placating; Newt was further reassured when they stepped out of the room and none of the people milling about paid him any mind. He got dragged by the elbow by the stubborn woman, through the precinct and out to the street. She paused on the steps to send a text; Newt took a momentary reprise to rub some life into his wrists. He was also hoping for an explanation.

“Come on,” the woman said instead, leading the way down the steps. Her curled dark hair bounced with every step, merry despite her serious countenance.

Newt fell in behind her, “Where are we going?”

“I’ve got a car.” It was, somehow, both an explanation and an annoying rebuff. She did indeed have a car: a beat down ruggedy thing that looked like it was barely holding itself together.

“That’s a…very nice car.”

She sent him a glance that told in no uncertain terms what she thought of his attempt to be polite.  

“My name is Tina. Goldstein.”

He finally got a name as they climbed into the car. It looked much nicer on the inside than on the outside. “Nice to meet you, Detective Goldstein.”

Her hands froze over the wheel for a moment before she breathed out a pleasant, “You too, Mr. Scamander,” and started the engine. It revved to life noisily and the car jerked into motion. As they joined the general New York traffic, she asked, “You know what Grindewald looks like, right?” She sounded nervous; uncertain for the first time since he had laid eyes on her.

“So this is about him.” Newt said instead of replying. The police kept interrogating him for hours even though he had nothing solid to add to their investigation. At least he thought though until he huffed, annoyed, that he looked nothing like Grindewald. They looked at him as if he was mad and slowly, carefully, he proclaimed that as far as he knew his hair wasn’t pale blond and his eyes mad. Apparently, it was a big deal that he had once saw the man in the flesh.

Tina nodded tersely. “Yes and no. it’s about another case.” She pressed on the gas pedal to squeeze some more speed out of the poor old vehicle and cross on the blinking yellow light. “To which Grindewald might be connected.”

“Oh,” he breathed out. Strangely, but that did sound like a valid explanation. “Alright. I do know what he looks like.” He said easily, as if the memory cost nothing. But in truth, dragging that to the surface made his hands tremble and his skin feel too tight. He lowered a window to let in some fresh air.

“How so?” Tina’s tone echoed his own, laced with pretend nonchalance.

Newt shifted uncomfortably. “I just…caught a glimpse once.”

The Detective took a hint and didn’t pry. Newt watched the streets pass by, wondering at how similar and at the same time different from London it was. Tall buildings and the bustle of people on the streets but the very air felt foreign. For a moment, he wondered what did Gellert Grindewald thought of this place. Did he enjoy the new playing field or did he miss home already? They both had spent a lot of time travelling, that was right. Newt, though happy with his work, always felt relieved to come home.

“Are we going far?” He asked when the silence in the car stretched for too long.

“Out of the city.” Tina explained. Now that they were on the outskirts of New York she was less tense: her hands gripping the wheel with less force and her small smile light. “To the suburbs.”

“What’s in the suburbs?”

“A farm.”

“A farm?” Newt scrunched his face into a hard frown. It wasn’t an impression he used a lot – only in moments of utter confusion. “You are hoping to find Grindewald on a farm?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Tina retorted defensively. The car was picking up speed as they were now leaving the city. “Do you know about Grindewald’s… ‘army’?”

Newt nodded. Of course, he knew. Gellert Grindewald, the most notorious and dangerous criminal of their time, liked collecting people with, as he said, ‘special abilities’. It sounded fancy but was merely a code for extreme violence or lack of an emotional response to such. He collected _murderers._ Usually kids or teens, guilty of horrible killings: he took them in and nurtured their ‘gifts’ and taught them to follow his bidding. It all sounded like a plot for a horror movie and turned even more terrifying when you realized it was true.

“Well, I think I might know why Grindewald is in New York.”

“You think he is looking for someone? A person?”

“Yes. And we are going to get to them before him.”

 

* * *

 

“Miss Modesty.” A shrill voice called out and she had to slower her pace so that the woman could catch up with her.

That was something she’d never get used to: being called ‘Miss’ at her tender age of twelve. But when her new step-parents had moved to the suburbs, to a big house with acres of land and a stable in the back yard, they had decided that hiring a maid was a good idea. Modesty couldn’t see a point: a maid for a household of three. But then she also didn’t get why would three people need such a huge house. Still, no matter her opinion, a week after they moved in a short plump woman in a uniform had settled in a room downstairs and had been lording over the house ever since. She was nice, all in all, except she was very insistent on turning Modesty into a ‘young lady’; that was a difficult feat on its own, but twice as hard when working with such a child. Modesty took pride in her rough manners and blunt attitude – it was a complete opposite of what Mary Lou had taught her.

She waited until the maid caught her breath, bending practically double and wheezing horribly. Finally the woman straightened up and, hand still pressed to her breast, proclaimed that there was a gentleman here to see her.

“Jimmy?” Modesty cursorily asked – there was no one else who could visit, so she was surprised when the maid shook her head.

“Mr. Graves,” she said. Using a moment of stunned silence, she continued. “He is waiting in your room.”

Numbly, Modesty turned on her heels and headed for the house. Her thoughts, frozen on the idea of Graves paying her a visit, started up again and picked up a pace, and with them her stride quickened. She was practically running when she reached the house, fighting over the feeling of trepidation that threatened to overcome. Her mind came up with a thousand reasons why would Graves come, in person, each one unbelievable and horrifying. It must have something to do with Credence. Had something happened to her brother? That question prevailed when she rushed up the stairs, taking two at a time. She was winded when she reached the top and breathed out heavily as she pushed the door open. It slammed against the wall, making the person sitting on her bed turn.

“You are not Graves!” Was the first thing off her tongue. It was loud and colored heavily with surprise and distrust. Her accusing gaze found his eyes. They were strange, those eyes: their color so pale and yet bright. It was nothing she had ever seen before. Hazel, so lacking in any natural hue it almost looked golden when the light hit them, underlined the madness. It was the same fervor she saw in her step-mother’s gaze.

Modesty stepped back into the hall.

“No need to be afraid of me,” the man said. Smug. He sounded smug. Modesty steeled herself against him unnerving smile.

“Who are you?”

The man watched her, taking her in: her simple attire, the way she stood, apparently ready to bolt, the caution written all over her face.  She wondered, what did he actually see? What did he want with her?

“I am not Graves. And you know that,” he pointed at her with a smirk. “And that is interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because it means you know how Graves looks like. You’ve met him.”

Modesty swallowed her next reply; it seemed better to just to wait him out. The man sat on her bed, seemingly content with the silence, studying her, studying her room. His gaze was politely disinterested but the way he leaned forward to study a picture frame on the bedside table betrayed his curiosity. He picked up a book from her pillow, twisted it in his hands.  “Interesting choice,” he commented idly.

It was a fairy tale, a pretty grim one, and the cover, while with a dash of childishness, was a swirl of dark blues and reds. Modesty detested those happy children books that were nothing but a feast of friendship and love; she preferred a detail of realism to her reading. Or at least a flair of gothic. However, the stranger obviously didn’t come to discuss her book choice.

“Why are you interested in Graves?” She gave up.

“I’m not,” the man shrugged. A disarray of blond hair almost touched his shoulders.

“You are asking about him.” She pointed out.

“I’m not,” the stranger repeated. A dangerous glint in his colorless eyes sparked a fear in her chest. Modesty wanted to leave but something told her it wasn’t an option. The man held her entrapped in his gaze, outwardly relaxed, but inside…In his eyes, in the sharp corners of his smirk laid something venomous. Lethal. “I’m asking about you.”

“Me?” Modesty frowned. She was standing in the doorway, halfway into the room. Still she was acutely aware that there was no one at the house except for her and the maid. Some people were working in the garden but if anything were to happen, first five minutes or so she would be on her own. A lot can happen in five minutes. Prompted by fear she wanted to snap at him, ask for an explanation already but a cautious side held her back.

“You are a very interesting girl, aren’t you?”

The way he said it…cold sweat gathered at her temples. “What do you mean?” She asked weakly.

He waved his hand, spraying spidery fingers wide, “Oh, just a murder.”

“What?” The question was nothing more than a breath, escaping in shock. Her head spun as she tried to keep track of the conversation: how did they get there?

The man’s pale eyes glinted with dark intent. Her blood ran cold and she put her hand on the doorjamb to keep herself steady. Modesty suddenly felt dizzy. “What?” She repeated, her voice faint.

Suddenly the man was getting to his feet and standing right in front of her; showed how much good being near the door did – she still stood frozen as he loomed over her, caught in a trance. His eyes searched her face, intense, and dropped away. He didn’t find what he wanted.

“Please, leave.” Modesty pleaded. She sounded so weak, like a scared little child she was. She thought…she thought nothing could bring her down anymore. After what she had been through, there was not a thing that could scare her. And still, she shivered in fear before this strange person.

“But it was you!” The man shouted suddenly. He turned away for a moment and then swirled back to stare at her. “You killed them.”

Modesty was shaking her head so fast her braid came undone. She took a careful step back, away from this madman.

“It had to be you.” He threw up his hands, frustrated. “There is no one else. You killed your mother and sister and then Graves covered it up.” He pointed an accusing finger in her forehead resolutely but otherwise seemed unsure now. Modesty shook her head again. She didn’t know what was happening but it seemed vitally important to persuade him that he was wrong. It wasn’t her, he was looking for. Not her. Modesty couldn’t think further than that.

He watched her; his gaze for once sober. It swept over her trembling frame, hands wrapped around her middle, and fixed on her face, silent tears running down her cheeks. He shook his head as if waking up from a fever dream. “Not you,” he said slowly: a decision made. “Who then?”

Modesty bit her lip and refused to reply. It didn’t matter, he was merely thinking aloud, coming up with a conclusion of his own.

“The mother is dead. The sister too.” He was speaking slowly, enunciating every word, stabbing sense into them with his low voice. “The brother found dead later. Body identified only through medical expertise. Ah…” An epiphany shone a light onto his sharp features; eyes narrowed, he smiled pleasantly.

“It’s alright,” he grinned happily and patted her on the shoulder on the way out. Once again Modesty watched a monster walk away, unscathed. Shadows shifted after him, his imposing figure lit up from the light of a dying sun streaming through the windows. Modesty’s mind flashed to a memory, a person, hunched and miserable, all drenched in blood. She knew who the man was looking for. She didn’t understand why, but she knew who…


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be two more chapters of this: one long and slow and the other short and final. This will probably be the last story for this AU because I have some other Gravebone ideas I would like to work on (and also I'm participating in a Sterek Reversebang and I'm spending most of my time on working on the story for it).
> 
> I really appreciate your feedback! I love you all for being so supportive and nice!<3
> 
> Also, ugh, please don't hate me?...

“Commissioner!”

Picquery half turned in the direction of the voice and saw a petit blonde rushing to catch up with her.

“Miss Goldstein?”

_The other_ Miss Goodstein, a sociable blonde who had half of the office vying for her attention, graced her with a bright but weak smile. Her heels clicked loudly as she strode alongside Picquery.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Commissioner,” she started, her eyes darting to Picquery’s face and then back ahead. She looked worried. A folder clutched to her chest was merely a prop but the phone she held in a white knuckled grip drew Picquery’s attention. “But this might be a matter of life and death.”

 It was such a cliché phrase but the way it was delivered made Picquery reconsider the first response that came to mind. “I think I’ll need you to elaborate, Miss Goldstein.”

He fingers spasmed around the phone and the woman took a deep breath. “I think my sister is in trouble.” She paused, collecting her thoughts and spoke again before Picquery could interfere. “She went after a criminal. That Grindewald.”

“How-?”

“Tina had a lead, some far-fetched idea but I think she might be not too far from the mark.” The words were rushed, all colored in worry. “She promised to inform you once she knew for sure, but I fear by that time it might be too late.”

Picquery regarded the blonde carefully. Queenie, as everyone called her, certainly made an impression of an air-headed sweet girl, but there was true intelligence and a sharp mind under those carefully styled curls.

“Alright,” she nodded. “Come to my office and tell me all you know.”

 

* * *

 

Credence felt a hand gently prodding his shoulder and forced his eyelids open. It had been a long ride and he had stolen Mr. Grave’s coat, burrowing into it and drifting off to sleep. Mr. Graves was quiet through the whole ride, concentrated on the road ahead and, even though the worry still nagged at him, Credence felt his mind slipping. His dreams were a mess of dark shapes and angry eyes, old fears coming up to the surface, so when he woke up the anxiousness sat heavily in his stomach, stronger than when they just started their journey.

“We’ll be there soon,” Mr. Graves had explained apologetically.

It was getting dark already; behind the window, under the blanket of grey dusk, were trees and pretty country houses. But the picture was muted somehow, affected too much by his worry.

“What is happening?” He felt foolish, asking the question. Mr. Graves would tell him if it was absolutely necessary but the wait only made the anxiousness clawing at his insides grow and spread. He wasn’t even sure that he _wanted_ to know but things were changing, their life was coming undone and he needed to know the reason why.

Mr. Graves clenched his jaw – Credence could see the tense play of muscles under the skin. The waning sun cast weak light over his features, making his face look ashen and the angle of his jaw sharp. “The police are about to discover some evidence that will allow them to arrest me.” His gaze slid sideways, meeting Credence’s eyes. “And you.”

That was close to Credence’s guess. He tugged the lapels of the coat around his shoulders as the cold settled into his skin. It was the end after all. He still hoped…

“Can we…Do we have the time to leave?”

Mr. Graves nodded. “Tony is getting the plane ready. Bert will meet us on the way to the airport with another car.” His voice was all business and no emotions. But when he turned to Credence and reached out to entwine their fingers, it softened. “It will be alright.”

Credence squeezed his hand, hoping to give some comfort of his own. Small suburban houses had ended, giving way for some empty space. The field stretched wide and rushed into the horizon. At the distance, trees loomed, dark and tall. Where the weak light streamed through their crown, he could see an outline of a house. “Modesty is there?” Credence nodded in the direction of it. As they drew closer he could make out the details: wide windows and a big inviting porch. It looked modern and bright, nothing like the heavy old-fashioned architecture of the mansion.

“Yeah…”

The road wound around the grove and as they turned they could finally see the whole estate. The house in the middle, but behind it many smaller structures. It looked like a picture from a children’s book.

The road leading up to it seemed too long to Credence; his stomach in knots by the time the car stopped and he got out into the chill of the evening. He pushed his hands through the sleeves of Mr. Graves’s coat and looked around. They were still some distance away from the porch, cautious of being unwelcome.

Credence glanced at Mr. Graves from the corner of his eye, but the man’s expression betrayed nothing, so he swept his gaze over the house. It was a lovely place. Very homely. All pastel colors and a picket fence and nice curtains in the windows. A swing sat on the side of a massive wooden porch and on that swing was a small lonely figure. The hinges screeched as the girl pushed her feet into the dirt mid-swing. Credence’s heart beat somewhere in his throat as they stared at each other. Finally, she pushed off the swing, letting it fly freely as she rushed down the gravel path.

Even though it had been years since they saw each other, Modesty didn’t look much different from how Credence remembered. She was running to him but her expression didn’t suggest a happy reunion. Wearily, Credence took a few steps towards her.

She shook her head. So casually but with such a closed expression that it made Credence feel cold. He gripped the coat tighter but it made nothing to dispel the chill inside. Modesty was gripping the hem of her tunic in both fists – an easy trick to keep her emotions, he knew. Except he had no idea what was running through her head now.

Credence hesitated but Modesty didn’t stop. She started saying something just as she got halfway but Credence could not make out the words. She was tense but, he was realizing, worried, not angry.

“You need to get out of here!” Modesty shouted waving her hand at him.

Her words hurt however her expression, desperate but not scared, not of him at least, only brought on confusion. Modesty was full on running now and when she reached them she was winded; bent at the waist to support her hand on her knees, she tried to catch her breath. “He is looking for you.” She was panting so hard Credence thought at first he had misheard. But she repeated, her wide eyes imploring. “He was here.”

“Who?” Credence glanced around as if expecting the mysterious ‘he’ to appear from the shadows. There was no one but them all around, from the house to the bend of the road. Mr. Graves had stepped up, his looming presence a comfort at Credence’s back.

“What are you talking about?”

Modesty’s gaze snapped between the two of them in indecision. Her eyes were sharp as they searched for any traces of recognition and when they found none she deflated a little and explained in a rushed whisper. “There was a man here. He was looking for you.” She jerked her head at Credence. Dropped her eyes. “He was…dangerous. Bad.”

Credence didn’t like how weak her voice suddenly turned, how small she looked with her head bowed and hands crossed. He wanted to offer comfort but with this warning looming over them, he couldn’t understand where they stood. Would she welcome his touch or would she throw his hand off in disgust?

“What did he look like? What exactly did he say?” Mr. Graves’s urgency gave an unpleasant tint to his words. Credence half-turned, noting his pale face and narrowed eyes. He thought, suddenly, that they should leave. Go, right now. Rush to the plane and leave the country or else something terrible might happen. He reached down and grasped Mr. Graves’s hand but the man was fully concentrated on Modesty.

“He said he knew about the murder.” She confessed, swallowed down tears that sprung to her eyes. “He was looking for the person who did it. He thought it was me. But it’s not. It’s not.” She shook her head viciously to shoo the memories away – Credence felt heavy guilt at how distressed she was getting. “He understood. He will come for you.” Her red-rimmed eyes fixed on Credence.

Mr. Graves’s hand squeezed his. “What did he look like?” He repeated more forcefully. “What does he want?”

Modesty shrugged helplessly to the last question and replied to the first. “He was strange. Yellow hair and pale eyes. Mad.”

Credence watched Mr. Graves, expecting an explanation. There were many enemies that wanted them harm, surely this must be just one more of them. The timing couldn’t be worse, true, but they knew how to deal with that problem. At that moment, Credence was extra aware of the gun tucked behind the waistband of his pants. It was the first thing he grabbed from their room, a promise of security.

Credence felt a tug on his hand – Mr. Graves had stepped back, but his eyes were unfocused. “You should leave.” It was directed at Modesty but Credence only understood because he knew Mr. Graves would not ask that of him. “Get back to the house. It’s not safe.”

Modesty took a step back but hesitated. She understood this was a goodbye; whatever happened after they would never see each other again. Maybe, she would be happy with that. Maybe, there was a little regret.

She darted forward, quick on her feet, and grabbed Credence’s other hand. Their palms pressed together, both too hot and sweaty with nerves, but he was grateful for the gesture. He squeezed her fingers, just a short moment, and let go. Without another word, Modesty turned on her heels and ran back to the house.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Graves tugged him in the opposite direction.

Except, there was someone standing on the other side of the car – waiting for them.

Even in the falling dark Credence could make out the messy blond hair and a grin so sharp it could be a weapon of its own.

“Credence, I presume?” The man asked. His movements were languidly slow as he uncrossed his arms and pushed away from the hood; but his eyes held a manic glee that shaded his voice with excitement. “Finally.”

“I don’t know you,” Credence replied sharply. All he wanted to do was jump into the car and drive away, but the stranger was too close and he was still standing by the driver’s door so Mr. Graves would have to wrestle him away trying to get into the front seat. That was a too big of a risk; the man’s hands were empty but there was doubt he had a weapon on him.

“Gellert Grindewald.”

It was such a strange thing to say, Credence didn’t even realize at first that Mr. Graves had just called the stranger by name. The man inclined his head in a late greeting and echoed. “Percival Graves. I heard a lot about you.”

“What do you want?”

Grindewald’s gaze slid from Mr. Graves’s hard expression to Credence; it slithered up his body, from the toes to the hair, making Credence uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Mr. Graves stepped up, positioning himself between them.

“I admit, Credence, you are older than the usual age of my recruits, but I had heard that your skillset had grown through the years so…” He shrugged, playing nonchalance. “I’m here with an offer to join me.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure this it?”

Tina would have happily replied if it wasn’t the fifth time Newt had asked the question. As it was, she ignored him completely and inspected the map on her phone again. Cell reception was horrid out here and the GPS was giving her trouble, but she knew the farm should be close. They passed suburban houses she made note of before on the map and now were taking a narrow road further into the country. Just any moment now, she told herself, and they would see the farm. It must have been bigger than she expected because while she wasn’t paying any mind to the trees lining the side of the road, the moment she took the car over the bend she could see a house and fields stretching behind it. On this side of the picket fence a car stood, its bright headlights illuminating three figures. She struggled to recognize them but in the counter light all she could see were shadows.

She was starting to think that maybe she should not have embarked on this journey alone.

Briefly, she glanced at Newt: he was leaning over the dashboard, squinting against the sharp light. He wouldn’t be much help, she decided. Tina had called the police when they were half-way here – she wasn’t a complete idiot, but the need to get justice was still fighting against the desire to help Credence Barebone. If the detectives’ guesses were true it meant that Credence was the one who had killed his family and since then had committed at least one more murder. But that wasn’t the young man she remembered: soft and good-natured despite the circumstances. In desperate need of a friend. Of help. Tina wanted to be that for him, but she couldn’t keep her temper in check and thus ensued her distancing from the case. It hurt. She had let him down.

Tina bit her lip as she rolled the car to a stop some distance away from the fence. This was her chance to make amends, to help now where she was unable to do so then. She dug a gun from the glove compartment and ignored a sharp intake of breath from Newt.

“It’s only for protection,” she promised. But his shock wasn’t at the gun, he wasn’t even looking at her – only paying attention at the trio.

“That’s him.” Newt said. His accent softened the words but his voice was all steel and ice and determination. She didn’t like it. “That’s Grindewald.”

He pointed at the blond stranger across from the pair Tina now recognized as Credence and a man known as Percival Graves, a famous criminal lord of New York. They were in a stand-off, she realized. The atmosphere tense, voices low. They must have noticed another car pull up but they were so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t even turn.

Tina crept out of the car, holding the gun hidden between the folds of her coat. Newt followed – she hissed at him to stay back but he just shook his head. Their eyes met, a silent argument that went nowhere.

When Tina turned back to the trio, the scene had changed drastically. There were guns drawn. Graves and Grindewald held each other at gunpoint, arguing hotly. Credence hang back but she could see a weapon in his hand as well.

Gravel crunched under her feet.

Credence turned his head and stared straight at her.

“Miss Goldstein?” His brow creased in confusion; his hair was longer, clothes better and posture straight, but that expression made him look so much like the scared young man she protected from an evil stepmother. It hurt, to remember what he had been, and to see what he had become.

He held her gaze and then turned quickly to warn Graves, “She is with the police.”

That was a mistake, Tina thought. But it was too late for preventative action. She ducked low as a first shot in her direction and then rushed to the side, tackling Newt and shoving him behind their car. Two more shots, but only one hit the windshield. Someone cried out; hiding behind the boot she couldn’t see who.

In the distance, she heard sirens.

 

* * *

 

Credence’s hands were covered in blood. The handle of the gun was slippery in his fingers but he only gripped tighter as he fired a blind shot at Grindewald and fell to his knees. He missed but it didn’t matter, the blond had already ducked behind the hood and was rushing in the direction of the tree line. Behind all the green glimmering white could be seen – a hidden vehicle.

Someone else was firing; bullets were hot on Grindewald’s heels but none hit the target. Credence spared a glance to Miss Goldstein as she rushed in pursuit, someone else close behind.

It felt surreal.

His head was spinning and he reached for the only thing that can give him some purchase.

“Mr. Graves.”

“It’s fine.” Mr. Graves insisted, though he sounded pained. He sat on the ground, hunched, palm pressed to his temple. The bullet, a first shot fired by Grindewald, only scraped the skin, but it was bleeding profusely. “We need to leave.”

The police was trying to get to Grindewald first, him being a high profile target, so this was their chance. Credence leaned down and gripped Mr. Graves by the elbow, helping him up, and leading him to the car. There was no point in asking if he could drive – Credence had never learned how.

Mr. Graves fell into the seat with a grunt, swiped a hand over his forehead, and put the car into gear. Credence lowered his window and watched out for any sign of the detectives but all he could see were indistinct figures behind the trees. Far away, sirens tore through the quiet of the night and Mr. Graves rushed to beat them. They needed to get to the end of this road, after that they can turn the opposite way. But for now they were only headed straight to what seemed like a whole squad of police cars and hoping to get to the intersection before them. Credence kept quiet, too nervous to talk, and only held the gun in his lap. He shot at Grindewald the moment Mr. Graves went down but the man had some uncanny ability of evading fire. He turned and aimed his gun at Credence but Miss Goldstein had diverted his attention. Before, the fact that she was there didn’t seem strange. Now he realized how out of place her sudden appearance had been. How did she know? Was she following them or Gellert Grindewald?

“Credence.”

He turned away from the window. Mr. Graves indicated at the phone on the dashboard. “Call Bert. Tell them to get the plane ready. Takeoff as soon as we get there.”

Bert picked up on the first ring, snapping a ‘Hello’ into the receiver harshly. Everyone was on edge. He calmed down a notch upon hearing Credence’s voice on the other end.

“We are all ready for takeoff. Just missing our key passengers.” He tried a joke but it fell flat. Even a following chuckle was weak.

“We are on our way.”

In his window Credence could see a procession of cars heading towards them, their lights shining from a distance in the dusk. Just that morning he had been enjoying the sun, relaxing on the balcony with a book in hand. Mr. Graves engrossed in a report on his tablet but his free hand kept running circles on Credence’s thigh. There was nothing sexual in the touch, just a familiar intimacy born out of years spent together. Not for the first time in his life Credence marveled at how quickly things can turn around.

Once again his life got pushed upside down, turned inside out and thrown out the window. The first time came so early, he barely remembered. His mother had died and he was sent to a group home and then Mary Lou Barebone took him in. He had thought, it was a change for the better. It wasn’t.

The second time was when he had taken a weapon and carved a hole in her chest. To him it felt like the end. The worst thing to ever happen. It wasn’t.

How backwards was this, when a change for good turned into a nightmare but a nightmare turned into a dream. What awaited them now? What was just around the bend?

The car swiveled, making a sharp right. The abrupt turn sent Credence bumping into Mr. Graves and the phone falling to the floor. He cried out in alarm – Mr. Graves shushed him. He was smiling. They were leaving the procession of police cars behind. He pressed on the gas now that the road was good and pushed the car to its limits.

Credence’s heart beat a mad rhythm against his ribcage; despite it, he was already feeling lighter than a moment ago. They were going to make it.

He was terrified of getting caught but he had not actually considered how that would go. He only knew he would not be separated from Mr. Graves. The intricate designs of the gun dug into his palm, he was holding it so hard.

Credence knew what he would do if they got caught. It wasn’t even a choice he had to consciously make. It was an inevitability.

 

* * *

 

Tina’s hands shook. She pressed them harder around the handle of her gun to subside the tremors.

“Drop your weapon.”

He was smiling. Why was he smiling? With a gun aimed at his chest, he still stood, casual as ever and grinned. An easy curl of his lips that broke clean proportions of his face and brought out the mad glint of his pale eyes. They were unnatural, those eyes. How did he manage to stay unnoticed through the years? The confident set of his shoulders spoke volumes of what he thought of her threats.

“Drop it.”

He was holding his gun loosely, barely clasped in spidery fingers. She would not let it fool her.

Tina was aware of Credence escaping with Graves the second she and Newt rushed after Grindewald. Picquery and her people should be here soon, they would organize a search, later. Gellert Grindewald was too big a fish to let go.

She had no idea where Newt disappeared to. He got thrown to the side when he attempted to run Grindewald down; she heard him hit the foliage hard and since then there was no sound from him. She wanted to check, to make sure he was all right, but doing so would mean turning away from a dangerous criminal. Tina would not tear her eyes from Grindewald even for a second.

Her body was coiled, tight as a spring ready to snap at the first sign of him trying to take a shot. His confidence was unnerving. He was acting like no other criminal she had met before.

“You are under arrest.” Tina said and he laughed. The sound, grating and unpleasant, sent chills down her spine. She had to remind herself, again and again, that she was the one with the upper hand here. _She had him_.

“Now, that’s an interesting idea.” Grindewald said pointing at her. “Never heard that before.”

He was still holding a gun in his other hand, loosely clasped in his fingers. He waved it around as he spoke and Tina twitched with every move. She was played with and, the worst thing, it was working. She didn’t feel like a cop arresting the criminal – she felt like a lamb led to a slaughter.

“Drop your gun.” She enunciated the words and turned her voice harsh and cool in a deep contrast to the hurricane of emotions inside her.

Something flashed in his eyes – dark and dangerous; it turned the corners of his smile down and, with his pale eyes and blond hair, made him look like ghost hanging in the waning evening light. Tina was terrified.

It was just a moment, when the fear swept her and loosened her hold on the gun, when he lunged to the side, evading a shot she fired when her mind finally caught up with the situation. He fired back and she couldn’t duck in time; the bullet scratched her arm.

Grindewald was quiet now, crouched behind a tree he aimed again, not giving her a chance to fight back. Tina dashed to the side, her feet slipping on the wet grass, bullets following her. There was no cover on her side, only a lonely car too far away. She turned, eyes wide but the gun raised.

A figure appeared out of shadows – Newt, his face an impassive mask of cold fury, lunged at Grindewald. They fell, rolled further away, and Tina dashed to help as they wrestled for the gun.  Newt had the man pinned down but the barrel was alarmingly close to his face and Grindewald struggled to move it inches to the side. He pulled the trigger but Newt tilted his head to the side and the shot missed. And in the next moment Tina was at his side, her nails digging into Grindewald’s arm and tugging the gun away from him. She stepped back, giving Newt room to stand aside, and leveled the weapon at Grindewald once more.

“ _Now_ you are under arrest.”

He struggled up to his knees and lifted his head only to notice he was at the wrong side of the gun.

Sirens blared as police cars appeared from around the bend in the road.

Tina felt all the rush of the past minutes leave her in one breath. She allowed the police officers take care of Grindewald, smiled sheepishly at Commissioner Picquery, hoping the reprimands could wait for until she wasn’t so wrung out.

“Did you catch Graves?” She asked tiredly.

“Two cars are in pursuit.” Commissioner Picquery replied. She looked as put together and strict as ever, but there was kindness in her eyes. Her voice was gentle when she ordered Tina to go and get some rest.

Tina was grateful.

 

* * *

 

They were not going to make it. Percival knew it with cold certainty. His palms were sweaty at the wheel but his hold true and he pressed on the gas as hard as he could. They had cops on their tale and there was no chance to shake them off – not on this road. In the city, yes, they could have hidden in the maze of streets and disappear with the help from numerous friends. But here, with a field stretching on one side and lights of suburb houses on the other, there was nowhere to hide.

Credence kept shifting nervously, turning around to see the flashing red and blue lights in the distance. Most likely, he knew what it meant already. Other than that, Percival had no idea what he was thinking. He knew how deep Credence’s loyalty to him lied; saw with his own eyes the proof. It was unwavering but also reckless. Credence would not betray him just to save his own skin, even if Percival asked him to.

If they got caught…Percival didn’t want to think about that but many scenarios, one more terrible than the other invaded his mind. He needed to take care of Credence.

If they got arrested, if they got through the trials without Credence doing anything drastic…he would not last in prison. It was a scary thought, one that presented itself nonetheless.

The cops would follow them to the airport and they would not get enough time to take off. To leave. If only there was a way to stall them…

“There is a car,” Credence pointed out softly but Percival had already noticed a vehicle heading their way. Could be just random stranger.

Or it could be his people, aggravated by the wait and coming to get them.

Percival slowed down his car as he noticed Bert on the driver’s seat of dark blue jeep.

“Figured, you might need help, boss,” He said, awkwardly shuffling his huge frame out of the car.

Percival glanced at Credence, his beautiful face creased with worry, and then turned back to Bert. A plan, truly ridiculous one, was forming in his head.

“Get out of the car,” he told Credence and followed him.

Bert was standing on the road, waiting for them, expecting orders.

The night had fallen already, its chill pleasant on his heated face. Percival’s hands were shaking slightly when he run his palms down the lapels of the coat Credence was wearing. “Don’t lose it.” He said, addressing both the young man and Bert. Percival pressed his fingers to the coarse wool, feeling for the shape of fake documents in the inner pocked, and patted it comfortingly.

Bert was watching him with confused eyes. A frown was forming on is brow and he opened his mouth like he was about to speak but changed his mind at the last moment.

Percival pressed a soft kiss to Credence’s forehead. His dark hair was a mess and no combing it with his fingers made any difference – still he ran his hands through the silky tresses, enjoying the feeling of them. Committing it to memory.

The raw emotion tearing through his heart must had shown on his face because Credence exhaled sharply and clung to his shirt. “Mr. Graves.” His voice was low but rough. He swallowed as if fighting back tears.

Percival kissed him before anything else could be sad. It tasted bitter. Cold, when they separated.

He cradled Credence’s jaw in his hands, caressing the sharp lines with his fingers while his eyes held Credence’s gaze. Those dark eyes, black and bottomless, were beautiful and full of sadness.

“I love you.” This was the first time Percival had said it. There never was a need for words when he could show his love with his actions. Words faded, words could be turned and twisted and made into lies. Words didn’t matter. This feeling, bittersweet and overwhelming, could not be expressed so easily. He showed it instead, with care and devotion. With adoration and tenderness. With fierce protectiveness and violent passion. Every day he spoke of his love for Credence, silently, with holding him gently and kissing him sweetly and making love to him.

But at that moment the words sprung to his lips, hot like their shared breath. Credence’s eyes were wide and scared in the dark. Tears gathered at the corners of them. Percival wiped them off before they could run tracks down his cheeks.

“I love you.”

A kiss was nothing but a press of lips, but he felt both of them shaking.

 

* * *

 

Bert blinked away the tears. He shouldn’t have been privy to this moment but there was nowhere for him to disappear. He stood at the side and waited, nervously playing with the keys in his hand. He had stolen the first car he saw, quite possibly it belonged to one of the pilots. It was fine, he reasoned. They were not going to need it anytime soon.

They had sat at the private airport for hours, waiting for the boss. When the plan was ready and all that was left was for the passengers to arrive, Bert snapped and headed their way. The road was simple and the rout straightforward – and that was one flaw that was going to doom them all, he had realized half-way. He had met the boss’ car on the road, which was good, but in the end it wasn’t going to be enough.

Except, it seemed, the boss had a plan.

From the corner of his eye Bert saw Mr. Graves make a little motion for him to come up closer. That was his cue, Bert had decided.

His footsteps were heavy and loud but Mr. Credence didn’t notice. Bert took it as a small blessing it was.

Carefully, he told himself.

He met boss’s eyes over Mr. Credence’s shoulder. An impeccable nod and his hand came down heavy on Mr. Credence’s head, knocking him out. Mr. Graves caught his falling form, cradling it in his arms. He looked up at Bert.

“I hope you didn’t hit too hard.”

“’Cause not, boss.” Bert promised. He wasn’t trying to actually hurt Mr. Credence after all.

Mr. Graves nodded and brushed unruly hair from Mr. Credence’s eyes. He checked the pulse anyway.

“You know what to do.”

Not a question so Bert didn’t bother answering. He bent down and lifted Mr. Credence’s prone form. He barely weighted anything. Mr. Graves’s empty hands balled into fists.

“Go then.” He said.

Bert gave a nod: an agreement, an acknowledgement, a goodbye.

Then he turned on his heels, carefully put Mr. Credence on the backseat, and drove off.

In the rearview mirror he saw Mr. Graves’s figure, standing lonely in the middle of the road. He had always looked imposing in a suit, but at that moment, in a shirt painted with red and rumpled trousers stained by dirt, blood crusted at his temple and marrying the mess of his hair, he looked small. Exhausted and alone. A man ready to meet his end. He was watching the car drive away. Behind him, the sirens wailed in the night.

 

* * *

 

Credence came to to rumble of engines. The sound was vaguely familiar but it didn’t belong to any car he knew. The back of his head hurt and for the first second of wakefulness that was the only thing on his mind. Where did the pain come from? He didn’t remember hitting his head…

He remembered though, a blond man with a manic grin, Miss Goldstein with a gun, Mr. Graves with blood on his face. It seemed like a surreal dream, both ridiculous and terrifying.

Credence felt around with his hand, disregarding the soft duvet covering him but fixating on the feeling of leather. It felt unfamiliar. Credence opened his eyes and looked around.

His hand dug into the duvet with so much strength his fingers hurt.

“Mr. Graves!” He gasped and sprung to his feet. It was a wrong move as he instantly felt wrong-footed and stumbled, falling back.

He was on a plane. At his cry Bert came out of the cockpit; he looked relived for a second until a dark shadow fell over his features. “Sorry, Mr. Credence.”

“What happened?” Credence’s memory was hazy on the details.

“We are on a way to London.” Bert explained. “Mr. Graves has a home there. It’s all set up. You are…uh…you are the boss now.”

The words made no sense. Credence knew Mr. Graves had some contingency plans always in action. In case of emergency, they could escape anywhere and live hidden. He had spoken about it only once to ease Credence’s worry but it was a constant comfort. A life like theirs could fall apart at any moment.

Looked like that time had come.

“Where is Mr. Graves?”

Something was nagging at the back of his mind, right near where the bruise was. How did he get it? It felt essential to know. Distracted, he still noticed the heavy silence. He glanced up at Bert who would not meet his eyes

“What?” A sharp edge rung in his voice. He felt anger and fear rising in his chest.

“Mr. Graves, he…uh…” Bert’s voice, usually gravely low, was gentle when he said, “He stayed back to stall the police.”

“What?” Credence repeated. It was sharp and angry. The rage simmered over grief, and boiled to the surface, ready to spill.  He couldn’t yet comprehend what it meant but the feelings were already there, ahead of his rational mind. “What does that mean?”

“Mr. Graves knew the cops would catch up eventually. He wanted to give you a chance to escape.”

“I don’t need to escape.” Credence replied vehemently. “Not without him.”

“He, uh, he knew that. That’s why I knocked you out.” He finished with his head held high, not challenge but admittance of guilt and readiness for the punishment.

Credence wasn’t going to punish him, but he did have a burning need to lash out, to let out the feeling burning in his chest. It hurt, squeezing his heart so hard, it made tears gather in his eyes. His vision blurred and he squeezed his eyes shut but this only made it worse. There, on the back of his eyelids he saw Mr. Graves, leaning close to him, whispering the words of love. Those useless, useless words, especially now that Credence would not have a chance to say them back. “Turn around.” He said coarsely.

He didn’t care that they were on plane. He didn’t care that by now the airport would be swamped by the police. He needed to be where Mr. Graves was, wherever that was. Be it in prison or in a grave.

Through the veil of tears he saw Bert shake his head. “Sorry, Mr. Credence. I have orders to get you to safety.”

Suddenly, everything was clear. The pain fell back and left the anger and Credence lunged at the bigger man, pushing him into the side of the plane, digging his fingers into his throat. Bert struggled weakly and gripped at Credence’s hands, trying to fight off the unexpectedly strong hold. He was gasping and begging for Credence to let go but it felt like something else had possessed his body, leaving his mind only a dull hum in the sea of anger. It was a familiar feeling; one that did not come often but always with such bright intensity. This time it was a relief, a way to let go and turn into something else. It could replace a home he had just lost.

Someone else was shouting and grabbing his shoulders but it was Bert who commanded the third party to stand back. He was still clutching at Credence’s hands, his wrists encircled in meaty fists and he was winning. Credence made a sound, more animal than human and dug his nails into the flash of the man’s neck.

“Mr. Credence, please,” he panted as Credence’s hold weakened. “Mr. Graves just wants to keep you safe.”

Credence bit on his lips until he tasted blood so he would not spat out an angry retort.

“He loves you very much.” Bert gasped.

And just like that all fight left Credence. His hands shook and his hold weakened. He stumbled back but his knees gave out and he slumped to the floor. Tears came, gathering in his eyes, running down his cheeks, mixing the taste of salt to the metal tang of blood on his lips. Helplessly, he wrapped his hands around his middle and bowed his head.

He sobbed, rocking on the floor, hoping the pain would leave along with tears. It didn’t. It hurt too much and he clawed at his shirt, hoping his stupid heart would just stop beating and rid him of this suffering. But the nightmare didn’t end; and unlike last time there was no one to save him.

Bert kneeled at his side, cautiously, laying his hand on Credence’s shoulder. He breathed in wetly. “Just let it out, Mr. Credence.”

Credence, feeling hopelessly lost, fell against his chest and let this man he never really bothered to get to know, put an arm around his shoulder and sit there, offering silent comfort.

And Credence cried. For the life ruined. And for love lost.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is long and slow but I like it. Stradford is my fav of the OCs and I wanted to wrtie some more from his POV. Next chapter will be short, also the last one.  
> I can't promise and update next week, I'm working on my fic for Sterek Reversebang. But I'll try to finish this story too!
> 
> As usual, thank you for your support and your comments!<3 And for, you know, not hating me for what I did to the charactersXD

Stradford picked up his bag from the belt, just a simple but tasteful duffel, and squeezed through the crowd of other arrivals to the airport exit. He dodged a pair of kids that rushed right under his feet and diverted them swiftly to their mother who rushed to grab their hands and apologized profusely. He waved her off and made a beeline to the doors.

The car was waiting outside but it took him a moment to locate a simple black vehicle in the midst of all the black taxis but the driver, leaning on the hood, waved him over.

“Mr. Stradford?” He clarified.

Except, he didn’t say it like that. He stretched the vowel and swallowed the ‘r’ and turned the last letter into a ‘t’. Stradford frowned but nodded, thinking how far away from home he was. And then he remembered that he didn’t have a home any more, that was the sole reason for his arrival to London.

The authorities had seized all the property, the mansion first and foremost, leaving him without his place. It wasn’t difficult to get away unscathed, just claim you know nothing and pretend to be helpful. Stradford was good at playing complacent; hiding his resentment, he had charmed the police officers who came for him and promised he knew nothing about the dealings of his employer. It also helped that he had never been directly involved in any of Mr. Graves’s criminal affairs.

He missed the mansion though. Missed its small grave towers that added a certain flourish to the overall gothic influenced architecture, missed walls of grey stone and the very atmosphere of the place. It seemed unwelcoming at first glance, always making strangers uncomfortable and just a bit unsettled, but once you got used to the dark corners and shadows under the stairs it became a home. Stradford had been a part of the household for all his life and now he was bereft, disconnected from his heritage and terribly lonely. He didn’t expect it to feel like that.

He had quite a nice fund saved up – enough to provide a very comfortable retirement, and his initial plan had been just that: to buy a flat in the city, any city for that matter, and spend his days catching up on reading books and preparing elaborate meals for one. It got _horribly_ boring _horribly_ quickly.

So it was unexpected and pretty wonderful when he got a call from London.

Stradford knew Mr. Graves had a small operation set up there, a townhouse in one of his names and an exit strategy that included a private jet and a bunch of fake passports. It was a relief to know that, even though Mr. Graves didn’t make it to his hideout, at least Mr. Credence did.

Stradford received a call from him only two months after the ordeal.

Being here, so far away from home that didn’t even exist anymore, brought his nostalgia up a notch and he let it overwhelm as he climbed into the back of the car that would take him from the airport to Mr. Credence’s new residence.

It wasn’t raining, at least, but London still managed to meet expectations with a cloudy sky and a light unpleasant drizzle. He brushed the drops from his tan coat and settled comfortably in the back seat. For a moment, his mind tricked him into believing that the city behind the window was still New York and he was just running an errand, getting groceries for an official dinner. But they were driving on the wrong side of the road and the traffic was not the familiar New York nightmare, so the illusion crumbled quickly, dropping him back into reality.

Stradford unlocked his phone, but there was nothing to it as he had deleted the message from Mr. Credence as soon as its meaning had settled in. he was asked to help out in this new business operation and, somehow, Stradford suspected this was about more than just running the house. He wasn’t particularly bothered about overstepping that border anymore; the last couple of months proved that simple life wasn’t for him, but he was slightly apprehensive.

“It’s not far,” the driver informed. Unnecessarily.

Stradford gave a small noise of acknowledgement but didn’t look away from the window. The view was drab and only got on his nerves, but that edge of irritation was a welcome substitute for despondence. He hoped it would go away with time. If only they could build a new home here.

The car swiveled to the side a little too harshly, the driver muttering a quick ‘sorry’ and pulling up to the curb. They stopped before a house, one of the many on this quiet street – all clones of each other, white and neat. An expensive district, no doubt. The driver, Stradford’s bag slung over one shoulder, led the way to the door. It opened before they could even knock – their arrival was awaited impatiently by a young man in the hall. He eyed Stradford critically, his pale eyes narrowed and considering, but his tone was pleasant when he recited rehearsed greetings.

Stradford was escorted up the stairs and, while his bag was on the way to a room at the end of the second floor corridor, he was ushered higher up and left alone before the grand doors of the third floor. He hesitated, just for a moment, coming up with scenarios of how this meeting could go. He had no idea what to expect, what state would Mr. Credence be in after Mr. Graves’s arrest?

Well, no use just waiting around, Stradford decided and pushed the door open.

There was a lot of white. White walls, pale carpeting and furniture, white curtains on a big bay window. So much light compared to the dull grey outside.

Then his eye caught a movement, among all the white a pale shirt and fair skin and dark hair. Mr. Credence startled, even though he was clearly waiting, on the lookout by the window. After that, he stood still and quiet.

“Hello, Mr. Credence,” Stradford greeted with a slight bow and a reassuring smile. He stepped and closed the doors to give them some privacy.

“Mr. Stradford,” Mr. Credence muttered, his voice low and, oh, shuttered.

In the next moment the young man sprang into action, crossing the floor and flinging his arms around his guest. “It is so good to see you again,” he muttered into Stradford’s lapel.

Stradford, lost for a moment, reluctantly put his arms around the boy, patting him on the back in consolation. “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Credence.” He admitted.

And it was. It felt almost like home. Mr. Credence trembled with suppressed emotions in his arms, clinging to him as to the last remaining thread of the old life.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, but Stradford shook his head and shushed the young man. Hugged him tighter, promising him help. He was there now. He couldn’t turn back time but he could make everything better. To look after his favorite charge.

“Whatever you need, Mr. Credence, I’m here for you.”

There was wetness on his shirt not caused by the drizzle outside, and he rocked the two of them from side to side as Mr. Credence cried on his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Business talks started next morning. Stradford used a small kitchen on the first floor to prepare some light breakfast, sat Mr. Credence down at the heavy wooden table and insisted they eat first. He watched the young man through the steam rising over his teacup; it was warm, cradled in his palms, but he still felt chilled to the bone. London was colder than New York, but it wasn’t the drop in temperature that bothered him. It was the chill in the air, wet and unpleasant, that settled over his skin and was impossible to shake off.

He spent the night in a room that too seemed impossible to warm up, tossing under the heap of blankets, his mind stuck on the on the current situation. Stradford had left the mansion all those months ago, sure he would never see either of his employers again. And still the photo of Mr. Graves was plastered over fist pages of all the papers for weeks. And now he had to deal with the image of Mr. Credence, broken and alone, crying his heart out. But that, Stradford reasoned, was last night.

From this moment onward, Mr. Credence would have someone to rely on.

There were other people in the house, coming and going and always hanging on at the background. They looked like muscles not brains but Stradford supposed that for the time they would suffice.

“So…” He intoned, sitting up straighter. Mr. Credence’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Is there a plan?”

The young man shrugged but was otherwise motionless. “There is an…operation here.”

“I assume, Mr. Graves had it set up?”

“Apparently, it had been running smoothly for years,” Mr. Credence replied. He turned away, running his fingers over the ridges of the tabletop nervously. “It’s been run by a man, named…ah, Cole.” He frowned pulling the name from memory. “Distantly commanded by Mr. Graves.”

“This man was running things here then?” Stradford nodded. “What about right now? What is happening?”

Mr. Credence pondered the question for a moment and then, coming to a decision, he pushed his plate away and got to his feet. “We should probably move to the office.”

The office turned out to be a small room at the end of the third floor corridor. Everything in that house was small, rooms and halls and all the windows except the bay window in Mr. Credence’s room. After the vastness of the mansion it felt suffocating. The narrow corridors pressed on his sides as they made their way across the house. It was empty when he woke up but now there were people down in the living room who followed them with their eyes as the duo passed. Mr. Credence paid them no attention but they spared a couple of polite nods that Stradford felt pressed to reciprocate.

Office door was left open, as if they were waiting for one more person to return, but Mr. Credence pushed a stack of papers into his hand without comments. It was paperwork – tradings and deals, a subtle trace of laundered money from an unsavory business. The income was fairly modest, certainly nothing compared to New York operation, but it was something. A start, maybe. Or maybe just a way to stay under the radar and still have a comfortable living. Stradford wasn’t sure yet what he was walking into.

“This is…interesting.” He commented carefully.

“I hope…I hope you think so.” Mr. Credence smiled weakly. “I was hoping you could help me.”

“In which way?”

Mr. Credence opened his mouth but closed it, wanting to speak but unable to find proper words. Shyly, he dropped his gaze. Uncertainty was projected in his every move: how he shifted uncomfortably, how he wouldn’t meet Stradford’s eyes and angled his body away. “I…” He started again. “I need someone to keep the books. Take care of the accounts. Run the front of the operation.” His voice was just as unsure but the way he spoke – it told a different story. He must have studied these papers carefully, read them again and again to know every detail. And to realize that he did not have enough experience to deal with this.

“What about the other side of things?” Stradford was reluctant to bring up the _more_ _criminal_ side of the whole _criminal_ business. He wasn’t sure how Mr. Credence would react to a question as of who did the bribing and occasional killing.

“Mr. Cole takes care of those things.”

“This Mr. Cole…?”

“He is Mr. Graves’s main contact in London. He runs the…uh…”

“The mob?” Stradford asked with a hint of amusement.

Mr. Credence nodded. “The number of people is smaller than in New York, but it works.”

It is also safer, Stradford reasoned in his head. Smaller operation meant less attention from the government. He could work with that.

Though he was kidding himself if he claimed he was still considering the offer. There was no way he would refuse. For many reasons.

“Alright,” he said after a moment of consideration. Mr. Credence’s head snapped up to glance at him, surprised. He was obviously expecting more resistance. “I’ll need to look over the papers and get acquainted with the affairs but I believe I can manage.”

“That’s…” Mr. Credence dropped his gaze again, unsure now. “Thank you.”

“It’s no bother,” Stradford waved away his concern. Mr. Credence had a horrible tendency to overthink. That state of mind was in a constant need of a soothing influence. Mr. Graves used to be his steading presence, a constant promise of safety and comfort. But Mr. Graves wasn’t there anymore. It was a loss impossible to fill. An absence so strong, impossible to ignore.

Stradford didn’t kid himself thinking he could replace it but he was resolute to ease the pain. After all, he treated Mr. Credence as his…no, not son, but maybe a nephew. A distant nephew.  That sounded about right in his head.

Stradford graced Mr. Credence with a small pat on the shoulder. After the previous evening, a feeling of awkwardness lingered between them, so he moved the conversation away from sentimental topics to business.

He got introduced to a pair of young men still hanging out downstairs, twins the two of them, middle ring thugs who stayed at the house as well, providing protection. They eyed Stradford wearily, distrustful; he couldn’t hold it against the two. A newcomer taking over the operation – that was bound to raise some dissatisfaction.

“Mr. Cole would be here soon,” Mr. Credence said as they settled back in the kitchen.

The cupboards were full, as well as the refrigerator, but other than that the kitchen looked unused. Stradford took a quick look around, noting where the appliances were, and set about making lunch. Mr. Credence made a strangled noise of protest, rushing to reassure that Stradford didn’t have to do that and that they usually ordered takeaway.

Stradford cringed in distaste and promised it was mostly for his own benefit.

Preparing food helped him get his thoughts in order. He would need to go over all the paperwork with special care; though he believed it wouldn’t be too much of a problem.

It was already midday but Stradford decided on making an omelet and  also pancakes, since he knew Mr. Credence would enjoy that. The young man was ridiculously attached to breakfast foods – a trait Stradford was fighting against constantly back in NY – but found himself following here in this new home.

Mr. Credence smiled gratefully when Stradford put a stack of pancakes before him, but it was such a weak smile. The slight upturn of lips that didn’t reach his eyes. They ate and talked of things of no consequences: the weather, a little bit of a letdown but otherwise fine, which places in London Mr. Credence had visited already, nothing really, not enough time for that – a lie, Stradford had noticed. The food grew cold with Mr. Credence only taking a couple of bites despite his projected enthusiasm, but Stradford kept pouring him fresh tea and asking more easy questions. It felt essential: to have Mr. Credence talk, describe his new experiences. He looked livelier at those moments. His morose gaze focused and clear and his mind churning one topic after another.

At some point, _the_ Mr. Cole had arrived. He turned out to be rather attractive elderly gentleman, close to Stradford in age and statue. That’s where the similarities ended.

“Everyone just calls me JC,” The man announced with an easy grin.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Stradford couldn’t help but comment. He couldn’t fathom why a grown up man would ever succumb to such a nickname.

The man only snorted in amusement and turned to prepare himself a cup of tea. “They call me that behind my back anyway,” he shrugged. “I figured, why bother…”

“Mr. Cole is in charge of the people,” Mr. Credence intervened before any more comments could be made. He added, somewhat hesitantly. “He is very good.”

Cole sent Stradford a smug grin at that.

“You will have to work together.” Mr. Credence added.

“Of course,” Stradford conceded without a pause to remove any trace of worry. “I’m sure we will…be able to work productively together.”

Mr. Credence nodded and pushed away his plate, still almost full.

Stradford glanced at Mr. Cole who was eyeing him with interest. It wouldn’t be an ideal partnership, that much was already obvious, but it would be worth the prize.

 

* * *

 

It turned out to be much easier than he expected – settling into this new life. Stradford had taken a room in the house, last on the second floor; away from the busy main hall on the first so he could enjoy the quiet whenever he wasn’t working. The second office, which he took for himself, was on the other end of the corridor and so he spent most of his days there anyway. Mr. Credence graciously conceded the huge oak desk for his use and only offered any comments when asked. Most of the time the young man willed the day away in his own room. Top floor all belonged to him: a bedroom and a small library with a collection of books that grew bigger all the time. He had his nose buried in some novel whenever Stradford dropped by, escaping the reality of this world for the sake of a beautiful fantasy.

They never spoke of Mr. Graves.

Except for that break down on the night of Stradford’s arrival, Mr. Credence didn’t show any sign of grief. That was worse than the contrary, Stradford knew.

However, he did not dare ask, did not try to bring up the painful topic. Frankly, he was at a loss about how to deal with the situation. Stradford wanted to help but he didn’t know how. Comforting others had never been his forte. And to be honest, he wasn’t expecting a tragedy of such proportions. He should have. Somehow, he didn’t.

So he helped in the only way he could: by making sure that the organization ran smoothly and discreetly, by preparing a nice meal every evening and by ordering books in heaps.

Mr. Cole was a constant presence through those times, in and out of the house with reports and discussions, asking for advice but also liberally giving one. He stayed for dinner quite often, turning an already awkward situation into one even more so. But Mr. Credence seemed to like him, or at least enjoy the visits.

“So what exactly happened back in New York?” He asked one evening as Mr. Credence disappeared upstairs and Stradford set to cleaning up the dinner table.

“I thought you were aware of the situation.” Stradford glanced at him askance. The man shrugged.

“I know Graves was arrested. And then suddenly, we have this guy in charge.” He pointed his thumb upwards. Stradford tensed at the words, not particularly happy with the wording, but the tone wasn’t malicious. Merely curious.

“Mr. Graves trusts Mr. Credence immensely.”

“I get that,” Cole chuckled. “I also get that they were…what, in love?”

“Are,” Stradford corrected without thinking.

He noticed Cole grinning at the adamancy in his voice. “Didn’t peg you for a romantic, Mr. Stradford.”

It was wiser to ignore the jibe completely than get defensive. “Mr. Graves wanted to provide Mr. Credence with a comfortable living. So giving him the operation was the best way to achieve that.” Before Cole could interject with another comment, Stradford continued. “Also it is worth mentioning that the business does not lie solely on Mr. Credence’s shoulders. I believe some of Mr. Graves’s people had also crossed the ocean?”

“Yeah. A couple. Useful guys.” Cole’s eyes followed Stradford’s movements while as the man took the dirty dishes to the kitchen, every time he stepped back into the room he could feel that gaze on him. “And now, there is you.”

Stradford paused in the doorway, meeting Cole’s eyes. There was something dangerous in them. Alert intelligence you would disregard on the first glance. He was a clever man who preferred to be underestimated. That way when he finally made his strike no one would expect it.

“Who are you in all of this, Mr. Stradford?”

“I was merely a housekeeper.”

“Keeping both the house and secrets?”

“To some extent.” Stradford allowed himself a small smirk. Maybe, he liked being underestimated too.

Cole laughed openly and tugged himself up to his feet and helped with the cleanup.

“He is really suffering, isn’t he?” Cole asked when Stradford was drying the last plate. The kitchen was quiet safe for their breathing.

“Yes.” There was no need to clarify who he meant.

Cole was silent for a long moment, leaning on the kitchen counter, his eyes staring out of the window but his mind somewhere else. Stradford felt a need to fill the silence.

“I’ve never seen a love so strong before.”

Their eyes met, briefly.

Cole pushed himself away from the counter and turned his back as he strode to the door. “See you, Mr. Stradford.”

Stradford stood in the middle of the kitchen, listening for his footsteps to grow quiet and the front door slam closed. His gaze drifted upward, as if through the ceiling he would be able to see Mr. Credence.

With a soft sigh he pushed the plate into its proper place and headed for the office.

 

* * *

 

He got used to the work, eventually. The moments when he needed to communicate with the men were rare, thankfully, most orders went through Cole first, and Stradford was left to his devices. He did learn all the names and backgrounds, surprising them with sudden inquiries after their mothers and wives, sisters and boyfriends. They warmed up to him, with time. Accepted the leadership of a harsh but just American and got used to his commands. It also didn’t hurt that Stradford managed to raise the profits.

Bert Stanton stopped by the house sometimes, seemingly wanting to reminisce about the good old days, but never getting bold enough to actually raise the subject. He kept away from Mr. Credence but refused to explain why; his eyes sad and weary every time his glance landed on the employer. Stradford didn’t pry; not yet anyway. There were more men from NYC, and a duo that had arrived after Stradford. Trusty men, he believed. Just like him searching for a new place in the world, happy to settle for the familiarity of working with Mr. Credence and him.

Wheels were turning, oiled generously by bribes and threats. Business went well. Life went on.

For everyone but Mr. Credence.

Every attempt of Stradford of brightening up his livelihood failed. It was two months after Stradford’s arrival when he managed to talk Mr. Credence into taking a walk with him. It was a pleasant day and they strolled down the street, engaged in a small conversation. It was fairly nice.

It was three months after Stradford’s arrival that they had some information about Mr. Graves’s trial. The sentence was severe. With no chance of him seeing freedom any time soon.

The news settled over the house like a black veil, shutting off the light. The conversations were hushed and instantly aborted whenever Stradford entered the room. Men lowered their eyes but still watched him, curiously but cautiously. They were all wondering the same thing: how was their new boss taking the news. Stradford was the only one who could tell but they didn’t dare ask. And so they walked on eggshells, avoiding the subject but still so obviously hungry for any drop of information. It was a small pleasure not to give them the satisfaction by volunteering any.

Stradford held himself stiffly those few first days, unsure himself how to act. A routine he had just managed to establish had crumbled, lacking one key component. Mr. Credence had locked himself in the room upstairs again. For an outsider it looked like there was a death in this house, strangling those who stayed and leeching off any joy. Might as well, Stradford had thought. Such a long sentence was enough to keep Mr. Credence away from Mr. Graves for almost all of his life. As a known criminal there was no way Mr. Credence could travel back to the States and waltz into a federal prison for a visit. The last goodbye that Tony had described to him in hushed tones was all they had.

It was tragic. And terrible. And Stradford had absolutely no idea what to do with it.

Business had fell completely to him. Mr. Cole dropped by the house more often now, always ready with personal question in-between the discussions of underground deals. He seemed terribly curious, always asking about both Mr. Credence and Mr. Graves; though it seemed the curiosity merely came from his inquisitive nature and the need to be in the loop all the time rather than from any thought of malice. Sometimes, Stradford gave him actual answers; sometimes, he brushed the man off curtly.

Then the holiday season came and Stradford braved the top floor to ask if maybe Mr. Credence would join him for a Thanksgiving dinner. He had laid out some food at the table in the kitchen, nothing too elaborate – definitely nothing like the big dinner they used to have back at home. But he was hoping, maybe, the memory of the holidays would cheer up Mr. Credence. Of course the hope was futile.

Mr. Credence, buried deep under the covers of his four-poster bed mumbled weakly that he would prefer to stay in his room, if Stradford didn’t mind. Stradford did mind, very much so. But he refrained from saying anything. Resolved to a celebratory dinner alone, sad and pathetic, he headed downstairs.

Turned out, the loneliness was mostly self-imposed. The small group of men that usually stayed in the house, haunting the first floor, peeked into the kitchen, as they were wont to do from time to time – lured in by delicious smells. This time, Stradford invited them in.

It wasn’t a thanksgiving dinner, but it was a nice dinner in the company of people he had grown used to. It was, in a way, nice.

Then Christmas rolled around. Decorations appeared in the house; not Stradford’s doing but still welcome. More people started coming over. Mr. Cole came by almost every day and his men, emboldened by that even ventured out to Stradford’s main domain – the kitchen. He allowed that and sent the younger members grocery shopping more often than not. With every passing day, Stradford was noticing how the ties bounding him to this people grew. They were not just numbers on his papers upstairs, they were _people_. Acquaintances. Slowly becoming friends. Stradford only wished that Mr. Credence could be a part of all that.

He wasn’t holding much hope as he ascended the stairs this time. The night has fallen already but the light through the windows was bright and colorful. Despite everything, Stradford was seduced by the holiday cheer. Living room downstairs was full of people, the lively chatter faded away the further up he went, but the slow soulful tune still carried, following him into the darkness of the top floor. It was a completely different atmosphere up there.

It was warm in the house but Stradford had to willfully resist from shivering. Just an illusion, he told himself. The overall effect of this joyless place.

He knocked on the door. No reply came, which wasn’t surprising, so Stradford pushed the door open and strode inside. The lump on the bed shifted, one corner lifted up and dark eyes peeking out.

“Mr. Stradford…” The voice was hoarse from the lack of use. Unfinished sentence hang in the dusty air.

“We are having a Christmas dinner,” Stradford announced. It had no impact what so ever. He wasn’t going to do the same mistake again though. Softening his voice, he inquired. “Maybe I can bring you something to your room. I can set the small table in the library.”

A contemplative silence was the answer. Stradford counted it as a win. He cajoled, very carefully. “I’ve made your favorites.”

The corner of the blanket lifted higher. Black hair could be visible now and the pale face; sunken black eyes watched him wearily. Stradford thought, we have come the full circle.

The image before him interposed with a memory: a newcomer, a stranger, a weird young man, now clean of blood but still scared. Sitting in the middle of Mr. Graves’s bed in a nest f blankets.

Just like that time, Stradford thought. Except this time, he knew how to handle the young man. That time, he was a new and strange presence, unwelcome even. Confusing. Now, he was a friend. Now, Stradford knew what was plaguing his mind. He could not fight those demons but he could handle them.

“Just a couple of dishes,” he added, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck.

Mr. Credence’s eyes flicked up to his face. A good sign, Stradford told himself.

“Alright.”

It was so weak he barely heard it. Only the slight nod that had the blanket falling over Mr. Credence’s forehead drew his attention to the word. Stradford allowed himself a small smile.

“Wonderful.” He said and turned back to fetch the food.

He took some time in the kitchen, allowing Mr. Credence the privacy to put himself together.

“That well, huh?” Mr. Cold chuckled, entering the kitchen and taking in the tray with food Stradford was putting together. “Good.”

“Indeed.” Stradford agreed easily. His mood had improved significantly.

He allowed Mr. Cole snatch a cookie from a cooling tray and only pretended to swap his hand away. It didn’t go unnoticed. “You certainly seem in good spirits.”

“It’s nice to see some progress.” The admission was simple, innocent, but the weight it carried was heavy. For a second the atmosphere grew solemn. Stradford continued packing plates of food on the tray – he had taken out the bigger one just for the occasion – and maneuvering around the other man in the kitchen. They had grown accustomed to each other’s presence; it almost felt comfortable. Effortless.

“What do you think is going to happen next?”

“I don’t dare make any predictions,” Stradford admitted. Tray full, he stood by the counter, lingering. He was comfortable. Not the way he was comfortable at the mansion: knowing every nook and cranny of his kitchen, every room of the house. The staff always just a step behind, friendly but keeping their distance. That was the image he had cultivated with them. That was appropriate.

Here, in this London house, so tiny compared to the old home, everything felt cozier. The space was smaller and with it so was the distance separating him from the others. Mr. Cole was a warm presence at his shoulder, welcome and soothing. It was strange, this new sense of belonging.

Aware of the silence that stretched for too long and the other man watching him, Stradford had fiddled with the glass on the tray, turning it just so, and picked up the whole thing to get it upstairs.

The room was less dark as he entered for the second time. A small lamp was lit on the table and Mr. Credence sat in the chair. He looked lost, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the wood, and eyes unseeing. They were fixed on the chair across, no doubt imagining a familiar figure where there were only empty shadows. Stradford cleared his throat and the young man startled badly.

They didn’t talk as he laid down the plates and dishes but as he turned to leave a cold hand snagged his wrist.

“Will you stay with me for a while, Mr. Stradford?”

How could he say no to those sad eyes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I feel like this Credence is already removed from canon pretty far. But that is his evolution is this story. Hope it is believable:)
> 
> P.S. I was reading Treveliue again – it made me think about elderly gays. (I'm just going to leave it at that)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made you all wait for such a long time - I'm sorry! I usually don't post anything before its finished but with this 'verse I really wanted to give you another story sooner because of all the amazing feedback I was getting. Now though, it is finished. This is the last chapter. I may return to this AU in the future but for now I want to explore some other ideas I have.
> 
>  
> 
> I feel like all the characters have changed quite a lot since the beginning of the series, especially Credence, but the change feel natural to me.
> 
> Thank you all for the support! Your love and your comments mean so much! And it makes me write more!:D I hope you will enjoy this last part of the Home of Shadows!

There was a crash. Downstairs. It jerked Credence from his trance and he tore his eyes from the book to look across the empty space of the library as it could give him answers. Since Mr. Stradford wasn’t there, dusting off the old volumes, it didn’t. Credence’s apathy stirred, touched by brief curiosity. It sounded like glass shuttering on the floor, so either Mr. Stradford had succumbed to a break down he always envisioned, or one of the men had just broken something and was about be eviscerated. Of at least evicted. Both would be faintly entertaining. These days it was so rare for Credence to find something that could hold his attention.

Most of the time, he felt disconnected from everything. Hollow. Only the books provided a small relief – a way out of this reality that was crushing him down and constructing his lungs with every moment. Whenever he thought about it, whenever he remembered…

It was only thanks to Mr. Stradford’s efforts that he had not barricaded himself in the room completely. The world was a terrible place, bearing down on him with suffering and tragedy again and again. It hurt. It hurt so much that at one point he lost himself completely in the pain and just to have some respite he rejected his feelings completely. An empty shell, he lived in this house that he despised. He would have hated it, but hate was too strong of an emotion for his exhausted soul to sustain. 

Credence put down the book. He always loved losing himself in a strange imaginary world, but now it had become his only scape. There were no other sounds from downstairs – house suspiciously quiet. All the conversations hushed at once as if a whole room was holding a breath. Credence wondered if the inhabitants were waiting for the explosion of Mr. Stradford’s wrath.

He crept quietly across the floor, soft carpet muffling his steps. Cracked the door open and peered into the hallway. Still, no sound. Not even any evidence of movement. His thoughts wandered to a more dangerous territory. Had something truly bad happened? Was the sound not a mere crack of a glass dropped onto the wooden floor?

He was more careful now, nearing the stairs and leaning over the banister to try to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the hall. He couldn’t see anyone but a low mutter of a voice reached him, not loud enough to discern the words, but carrying just enough to understand that one person was speaking.

Credence skipped over the first step – it creaked loudly – and descended unhurriedly. Cautiously, he kept looking over the banister. The first person he did see was one of Mr. Cole’s men. He was standing with his back to the staircase but his stance was relaxed and casual; Credence took it as a good sign.

Next one, a little further away, was Mr. Cole himself. Half-turned, he was also relaxed. A grin pulled at the corner of his lips. He never really smiled – only grinned in a sharp, dangerous way. This one, on the contrary, made his face look softer. Credence couldn’t find a reason for such an expression, but he trusted it nonetheless. His shoulders drooped as the tension left his body.

Credence stepped down the last step; it stole the attention of the whole room, faces turned to look at him. Their expressions varied: some uncertain, confused, some tense and some almost relieved. Mr. Stradford too, was smiling. Credence’s eyes swept around the room for the second time, paying closer attention now.

“Oh…” His hand grasped for the banister to keep him up as his knees almost buckled under him in the next moment.

The small company of men in the hall was crowded to the side, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, watching curiously. Away from them only one person stood. It was hard to recognize him, close-cropped hair and tired eyes, but Credence’s heart leaped to his throat at the sight of him.

His hands trembled and he gripped the banister harder to give himself some strength.

“Mr. Graves,” he thought he said it but the sound was so small, so weak, it got swallowed by the oppressing silence.

Mr. Graves, for it was he, so changed and yet the same, gave him a crooked smile. He took a step forward, propelling the whole scene in motion – men scattered, leaving only Mr. Stradford lingering in the doorway with Mr. Cole hovering at his shoulder. Credence locked eyes with them for a fleeting moment but it seemed to be enough for Mr. Stradford who then ushered the other man away. They were left alone and Credence, excitement and worry bubbling in his chest, found himself unable to look at Mr. Graves.

He was relieved, lighter than he had felt in months – more than half a year had already passed. He was happy: at that moment when a realization crushed over him, showering with warmth. Next, he wondered if he had finally gone insane. Lost completely the sense of reality – a blessing had been begging for for so long now.

But as Mr. Graves came to a stop before him, his shiny polished shoes in the field of Credence’s vision, he had felt a touch to his hand.  Shudder tore through his frame at that light contact.

And then Credence was angry.

Sharply, he whirled his head up to look right at Mr. Graves. Fury must have shown through his eyes because a smile slid from Mr. Graves’s face, his features turning into a frown. Credence gripped the banister, not from weakness now. No, the anger gave him strength. He held himself back from lashing out.

“Credence?” Mr. Graves asked, so softly, so gently…Credence buried the hurt that the broken voice inspired and let go.

His fists came flying as he brought them down heavily on Mr. Graves’s chest. Mr. Graves grunted in surprised pain and stumbled back but Credence was on him still. Crossing the distance quickly and grabbing Mr. Graves by the shirt, shaking him violently as an animalistic cry tore from his throat. Credence was so angry he beat his hands on Mr. Graves’s chest, panting in frustration. Mr. Graves held in a hiss but didn’t retreat this time. He endured Credence’s madness, only pushing a breath through his lungs when the next punch landed too hard.

Hands were on Credence’s shoulders, not pushing him away, not even holding him back, but simply a point of contact between them. Mr. Graves’s hands were warm, large palms on Credence’s bony shoulders. Shudders that wreaked Credence’s frame resonated through Mr. Graves’s skin and came back as a soothing caress. It was not enough to calm him down and only made Credence madder.

“How dare you…” Credence pushed out in-between angry gasps. There was not enough air in his lungs; as he gulped it down in heavy breathes it left a salty tang in his mouth. “You!” He was incapable of saying anything else. Inarticulate, he hammered on Mr. Graves’s chest until he had no more strength.

“I am sorry.” Mr. Graves sounded small. His voice – Credence remembered the power of it – was low and broken. Hands on his shoulders pressed down and forward, crushing Credence to the man’s chest.

Credence made a sound – a wail that tore through his teeth – and thumped his fists on both sides of Mr. Graves’s chest.

“I am so sorry,” Mr. Graves repeated breathlessly.

Credence scrunched his eyes shut against the onslaught of tears but it was a futile effort: Mr. Graves’s shirt was drenched in them already. They slid down Credence’s cheeks, turning his face blotchy red, and caught on his lips where he swallowed the saltiness and bitterness of them. Credence thrashed around, weakly trying to fight back again, to hurt the man who had hurt him so much. Mr. Graves’s grip on his arms was strong but not confining, giving him a chance to do as he pleased.

Credence’s fingers spasmed and gripped the fabric of Mr. Graves’s shirt, bunching it up and tugging. He was still crying as he lifted his face up and kissed Mr. Graves. This kiss tasted just like the last one. It made the anger come back in a ruthless wave and Credence pushed him back, until the man stumbled a step, two, three away, watching him with wide eyes.

Words sprung to Credence’s mind but they would not leave his lips and he gaped, gasping for breath, and tried to get a grip of his anger, fueled by hurt that burned brightly.

“I am sorry,” Mr. Graves repeated for the third time; now there was a finality in his tone. He jerked, as if he wanted to step up, closer, but caught himself. “I know why you are angry and I am sorry I hurt you.” Mr. Graves continued. A smile that once would have been rueful but now seemed forced tugged at the corner of his lips. It only made the pain in his eyes more pronounced. “I am not sorry for what I did though.”

“You are not…”

“I needed to keep you safe,” Mr. Graves spoke over his rising tone. “I made a promise and I intend to keep it.”

“A promise?” Credence threw back with poison. “That’s it?”

Stupid, ridiculous, foolish question. Of course it wasn’t. Of course. He had never doubted Mr. Graves and he never would, but the urge to lash out, to wound was too strong in him. Mr. Graves’s pinched expression showed that the shot had reached the target.

“I would do anything to protect you,” Mr. Graves said instead of addressing Credence’s careless remark. “You are my first priority.” He shrugged, “Besides I knew I had better chances of getting out.”

“How _did_ you get out?” Credence asked, wanting to change the subject. And then, unable to stop picking on the wound, added. “Why did it take you so long to come?”

“I needed the trial to be over. To be sent to where I’ll be serving my sentence in order for my guys to bust me out.”

Credence winced at the mention of sentence. So long he was supposed to be away from his lover and now, Mr. Graves was standing before him and Credence was stewing in anger and hurt. His hands were shaking with an effort to stay away; not to reach out to Mr. Graves, touch him, smooth out the creases his grip had left. Credence’s whole body felt taut with nerves; in his chest a whirlwind of emotions was raving.

“You knew you’d go free?” Credence sounded betrayed and could do nothing about it, but Mr. Graves finally surged forward, shaking his head and taking Credence’s hands.

“I didn’t,” he explained in a fevered whisper. “Not for sure. I had no idea what was going to happen. I only knew...” He paused, stalling his rushing words. In his eyes a fire was burning. “I only knew that I needed to get you to safety.”

Credence swallowed against the lump in his throat. Tears had dried on his cheeks, leaving skin unpleasantly taught, and he was suddenly very tired. He gave a slow nod, “Alright.” He didn’t want to fight any more. The anger had fled but the joy would not come; he knew not how to react.

“Alright,” Credence repeated in a hollow whisper. He glanced down, at Mr. Graves’s hand holding his own, warm and big just as he remembered, and squeezed his fingers in return. Mr. Graves took it as a permission to approach, to envelope Credence in a fierce hug, laying his head on Credence’s shoulder, and buried his face in his neck. Weakly, Credence returned the embrace.

Mr. Graves didn’t let go for a long time. Credence just stood, trying to understand. His feelings – the whole hurricane of them – had died down, leaving him only a distant observer of what was happening in his own heart. The anger, at the first sight of Mr. Graves, had pushed out all the pain of previous months. But it drained away too, leaving emptiness behind. He was exhausted from an overflow of emotions. When Mr. Graves had finally let go, his eyes hopefully searching Credence’s face, he turned away. “I think I need to…” To understand. But that would only confuse Mr. Graves. “To rest now.”

Credence slid from his arms, careful, and with an apologetic glance disappeared up the stairwell.

He locked himself in the room upstairs and buried his head under the covers.

 

* * *

 

Credence woke up in the middle of the night. His head felt clearer and mind sharper as if he was coming out of a long daze. He remembered: Mr. Graves arriving and his own violent reaction to that. It was justified, he had decided. But with the burden of all those worries swept away, now he wanted to see Mr. Graves.

Credence dug himself from under the covers; the room was dark with the blinds drawn but there was a light streaming from under the door to the hallway. It wasn’t the warm lighting of the lamps hanging on the walls, but a brash white glow. Credence struggled to free himself from the covers, trod quietly on a carpeted floor and threw the door open sharply.

Mr. Graves glanced up at him from his position on the floor. He was sitting with his back to the wall, legs sprayed over the floor and a phone in his hands. Its glow lit up his face but the angle was all wrong and it made him look drawn and tired. Without a word, Credence waved him inside. He did not know what he was doing anymore.

Mr. Graves hovered in the middle of the room uncertainly, following him with his eyes. Credence stepped around him, hesitating for a moment too, and then with a practiced motion slid Mr. Graves’s jacket off his shoulders. He didn’t try anything else, just this vague gesture of good will, and headed for the bed, settling on the side rather than in the middle. Mr. Graves, after a moment of contemplation, accepted the peace offering and lain down carefully on the other side. They both were staring at the dark canopy when Mr. Graves said, “I am sorry.”

He wasn’t sorry for what Credence actually blamed him but in the dark and the quiet, where they could pretend that nothing had changed – they were in their room at the mansion, Mr. Stradford pattered around in the kitchen and the gardener was about to start his day by trimming the hedges in the back garden. James would arrive, a little late as usual, beg for forgiveness and steal a fresh bread roll from the kitchen. Beg for forgiveness again, this time with Mr. Stradford looming over threateningly. Mr. Graves would leave for a business meeting and Credence would hole up in the library with a book. It would a nice day. Such a lovely, lovely day…

But the fantasy was a lie. And the truth pressed down like a cold wall between them.

“You left me,”’ Credence said to the darkness above. His voice sounded more petulant than he intended.

“No.” He could feel Mr. Graves shake his head, heard the covers rustle with the movement. “I would never leave you. I protected you.”

Credence scoffed.

“You don’t see it that way,” Mr. Graves pointed out. “But I do. And I don’t regret it.”

The silence was empty. Credence had no more words to say and Mr. Graves had plenty but they would not be accepted. Fingers brushed his own. Credence let them.

“I hoped I would be able to come to you. I did not know, but I hoped,” Mr. Graves pressed. “That we could be together again.”

Credence didn’t expect for his heart to start beating so fast. He turned his hand around and gripped for Mr. Graves, intertwining their fingers. Breathing suddenly became so easy. Maybe this was what he had been waiting for…For an admission that Mr. Graves still wanted him. That he did not reject Credence by denying him the choice.

“I knew it would hurt you,” Mr. Graves continued. “But at least you would be safe.”

Credence took a breath – it filled his lungs with a new hope – and turned on his side to face Mr. Graves.

“London is not so bad,” he admitted, hoping Mr. Graves would see it for what it was: a forgiveness.

Mr. Graves mimicked the movement so they were facing each other now, hands still clasped on the sheets between them.

“Can I kiss you now?” Mr. Graves asked.

Credence realized, he wasn’t the only one unsure in this relationship. He nodded and surged forward to press his lips to Mr. Graves’s. It’s been so long, he had almost forgotten how it felt, and the fire that sparked at the touch and rushed as molten lava through his veins took him by surprise. He moaned and tried to pull away but Mr. Graves followed, catching him in another scorching kiss. They plunged into a hot daze together. Hands, never stopping in one place, touching, caressing, pulling and pressing. Everywhere. A kiss after a kiss; a gasp of breath and then back under. Mr. Graves pressed him into the bed, the weight of him and the warmth so achingly familiar that Credence felt tears spring to his eyes. He swallowed them before his lover would notice and instead clung harder to Mr. Graves, divesting him of the shirt and dragging his nails over the smooth skin of his back. Mr. Graves shuddered over him, pressing hot kisses to Credence’s neck, marking out the path he knew so well.

Credence let go of all the worry and pain as Mr. Graves made love to him. He had already despaired, thinking they would never be this close again and to have this back – it was a miracle. They moved together, becoming one and Credence reveled in Mr. Graves’s low groans pressed into the skin of his neck. His hot breath, his blunt teeth, his soft lips. They teased and marked and the connection was forged anew.

The words – the last words spoken – came to Credence’s mind, that desperate admission of love. They were useless now, because this, _this_ was the way to translate the feeling; a confession and a vow, a promise.

Credence clung to Mr. Graves as the feelings overtook, spilling as the pleasure built to a critical point.

It was scary, putting all his love and faith into one person. He had been burnt already and the helpless emptiness that haunted him in the months without Mr. Graves still loomed as a dark pit on the horizon. But he had to believe in a better future. He was stronger now; he knew how to fight with this despair. And he knew, better than anything, that whatever happened, Mr. Graves would always belong to him. If not in body than in soul. Just as Credence would forever be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say 'Thank you' enough! To all of you you commented regularly, to those who left me a nice review, to those you left me kudos! Than you everyone for your support! This would not have been such a big 'verse without you!<3
> 
> Feel free to come ant talk to me about this AU on my tumblr: mysteryismyart

**Author's Note:**

> I did some aesthetics for this series! You can check them out if you want: [Credence](http://mysteryismyart.tumblr.com/post/157860666205/home-of-shadows-credence-the-mansion-a-story) and [Graves](http://mysteryismyart.tumblr.com/post/158036445425/home-of-shadows-graves-the-gang-a-story-of).
> 
> Edit for the last chapter [here](http://mysteryismyart.tumblr.com/post/160958144355/daylightmoonlight-the-last-story-in-my-gradence).


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